


(metem)Psychosis

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Blood and Gore, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating upped, Threats of Infanticide, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, now with Warnings - check tags or author note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Redbeard just can't leave Sherly behind. He's allowed to be reborn - as a human, ever. And he's just as eager to play.<br/>Rating might change. I'm currently unsure where this will go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. And I have no excuses for this. It is the love child of His last vow and Dear Spangley. I know that I should have killed this in my womb, but I couldn't. So now you get...

He knew what was happening. Of course he knew. He was a clever boy. Everyone said so.

 

They were going to put him down. It was the kindest thing to do. He was in pain. He was...ruined.

 

If he could have talked, he'd have told them – with all due respect, of course – not to be idiots. He could take pain, and brokenness.

 

What he couldn’t bear was to forsake his Sherlock. His boy. The one he played with. The one he cuddled. The one he comforted when Mycroft was being a cold-hearted bastard. Sherly would get lonely without him. Were they all blind?

 

Alas, Redbeard couldn't very well make his point known. No matter how clever, his inter-species communication skills were still sorely limited. No one understood him. He only whimpered as the needle pierced his vein and the Phenobarbital flooded his system. Euthanasia. The “kind thing”, they called it. There was nothing kind in forcing him to let go of the life – of the people – he loved. He died full of regret.

 

He expected nothing. Dreamless sleep, perhaps – that's what they had said. 'Put him to sleep.'

He didn't foresee the soft, compassionate voice who, after the deed, asked, "Why so sad, little one?"

 

Redbeard couldn't see the speaker. Not that it mattered. "I didn't want to leave," he admitted honestly. It wasn't like he'd get in trouble for telling an unwanted truth. They couldn’t do him any worse than what had already happened. "Sherly – he's going to be sad, and so lonely now...That's just wrong. I was the only one he had to play with. He won't have me to comfort him. He doesn't like going to his parents for that. So tell me, whoever you are, how could I ever be fine with leaving him?"

 

"Do you want to go back? I can send you back, to be reborn. If you're really destined to be together, he'll find you again," the god – Redbeard supposed – offered.

 

"Um, could you do something else instead?" he countered. (Might as well make the most of the situation, right?)

 

"I can probably fulfil whatever you wish. Ask away, lovely one," the voice replied.

 

‘Probably’? Not all-powerful then. Likely not God, then? Angel?...As long as he got what he wanted, who cared? "Can I be a human? I think that Sherly needs a playmate of his own kind. He hasn't got any of those. Mycroft is too fat and boring," he pleaded.

 

"If you want. It's very thoughtful of you, you know. You care for Sherlock very much, don't you?" the kind one remarked.

 

"He's mine," Redbeard stated simply.

 

"Well then, you'll be reborn soon," the voice announced.

 

"Wait!" the dog interjected hurriedly. "Will I be a pup – sorry, a newborn?"

 

"Yes, of course."

 

"So I'll have with Sherly more or less the age difference he has with his brother," Redbeard reasoned.

 

"And that is a problem because?" the voice queried.

 

"What if Sherly finds me annoying and not worthy to play with because I'm too young for him? What if he behaves toward me the way Mycroft does towards him? Can you help with that?" They were very sensible worries, after all.

 

"A little time manipulation to make you more or less the same age as your friend. Don't see why not. Anything else?" the god/angel/whatever inquired.

 

"Oh no. I'll take it from there," Redbeard assured. He was sure he would do splendidly as long as he could meet Sherlock again.

 

"Oh, and of course I’ll make sure you keep your memories intact, otherwise there'd be no point. Don't worry. You'll be back into the world soon. Then you'll be on your own. Don't waste your chance," the creature warned.

 

As if he would.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. BBC and Conan Doyle share them.

 

Redbeard should really have specified more things. Bargained better. But he'd told that he wanted to stay with Sherly. Being stranded in an entirely different country even seemed like a cruel act for Someone who cared for a dog's happiness. But it was a supernatural being's sense of humour, he supposed.

 

Redbeard's breed had been called Irish Setter, even if he'd never seen Irish soil. Well, now he had. James – Jim, really, nobody called him James unless he was in trouble – was born in Dublin. Counterproductive as it was. But then he relaxed. He was – would be still by Sherlock's side for a while. Time manipulation was a wonderful thing. He only had to find a way to make his parents move some time from now. Or maybe simply run from home. But he was clever, he'd find a way back to Sherlock's side. Or make one.

 

Until then, he could enjoy his second childhood. Mom was sweet, and a great storyteller. With the right puppy look, she could often be persuaded to read him a story. And what marvellous tales they were! Knights and dragons, magic and adventures. Yes, Sherly played pirates more often than not, but surely he would be amenable to other games. Wouldn't want Sherlock to grow bored after all.

 

It could have been a blissful time, all things considered, if only he hadn't missed his friend so much that he ached. And if everyone else hadn't been so unspeakably dull in comparison. He'd told them, at the time. They hadn't liked it, being less than his imaginary friend. That's how people saw Sherlock at the time. His imaginary friend, and with the weird name to boot. He had never bothered to explain things in detail, after all. He didn't want people to think less of him because he'd been non-human before.

 

At the start, people hadn't minded much. But the longer he held onto Sherlock, the more his parents had grown upset, while his peers – not that they really were, or that they mattered at all – mocked and despised him. When his parents had brought him to a shrink, he knew that something had to be done. He couldn't let them drug him into forgetting his life's calling. He would hold onto Sherlock – of course he would – but Jim didn't mention him anymore.

 

He started by deceiving his therapist, saying what he wanted to hear, and that got him wondering. This one was supposed to notice things like that. Was really everyone so easy to trick? And what exactly could he gain by manipulating them? It was something that bore experimenting. He was sure that Sherlock would have agreed with him.

 

A lot of things, it turned out. If he pretended to be what others wanted him to be, told them what they wanted to hear – which was pathetically easy to determine – he was praised. Loved. And pretty much everything he asked for that still projected the image of him they wanted to see would be happily conceded. His fairytales books were definitely in that category.

 

And how convenient it was that adults and children wanted different things. The grown-ups were wrapped around his tiny little finger already, and wasn't it amusing. Children were more distrustful of him, because he'd spurned them first. And really, many of them weren't worth his time anyway. But some – some he almost smelled out as kindred souls, and they were so eager to go along with his suggestions for fun.

 

The instinct to hunt and tear down small creatures had never disappeared, but now he had a small pack of his own that would do these things with – nay, for – him. They had to be careful, not to be caught, but when he planned they never were. His associates looked up to him for that. He gave all kind of 'fun' suggestions – not just about hunting, about creating small havoc too – and then they snickered seeing people scurry around and get upset over their actions.

 

Small things, everyone of these, mind you. But the children with a more sadistic streak soon learned to go to Jim to organize their pastimes. And the great thing – the one that made Jim snicker endlessly all on his own – was that no one suspected anything. Not just the adults. Most children that weren't in his circle saw him still only as the loser who held too long on a fake friend. And he let them think so. Wasn't it humorous?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. So boring to repeat it!

When Jim was 13, Fate found him. Jim embraced it wholeheartedly. Even though he didn’t realise that it would change his life forever, a crossing over a horizon that he didn't initially see. He was simply acting out of instinct. More in tune with his deeper self than he had been in a long time. Not acting. Not pleasing others. Just getting done what needed to be done.

 

Redbeard had already been dead two years and Jim still had not managed to navigate his way back to Sherlock. Engineering a move was harder than he’d thought. If he ran away his parents would search for him and when they found him they’d be sure to do their damnedest to separate him from Sherly. Even if his parents realized that he had searched for the other boy all his life, they would never understand (they couldn't possibly do so) nor care. They'd just consider Sherly as the reason for his running away and hence hate him. Jim was convinced. The option wasn't viable.

 

But soon the sport’s championship for schools would take place in London. It was enough for Jim to try with all his soul to be on a team his school would be sending there. Any team. Even the swimming team, unpopular as that option was. But it was the only sport he was good at (very good, in fact), and anyway, it would help him develop in a well balanced way. He didn't need to become brawny. He had his underlings for that. Jim was fired up (giddy with excitement and anticipation, really) and it showed. The teacher considered him a fine choice in order to boost everyone's moral.

 

All that giddiness (chanting 'Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock' inside his head) made him careless. The first free moment he had, he slipped away and beelined for Sherlock's usual specimen gathering spot (also his play spot), hoping his friend's habits hadn't changed in the past two years. Blissfully, they had not. Sherly was there. He was there! But – then, suddenly, Jim wasn't quite sure how to approach him. Sherlock didn't really like other children (the reverse was true, too – poor Sherly) and there was every chance he might pronounce Jim boring before he could string together a coherent sentence. He needed something that would make an impression. Something great. Something not-boring.

 

"Hi Sherly, I'm Redbeard," would just look like a mockery. A particularly unwarranted and vicious one, at that.

 

"Can I be your friend?" would either be deemed boring or make Sherlock question why. And "I was born for it," would not be an acceptable answer. He couldn't explain everything, and he'd look like a madman. Or a creep. Or a creepy madman.

 

There was always the botulinum toxin he had gotten from Philip, whose father was a plastic surgeon, to use on the wrinkly naked cat of Mrs. Pengelley (the thing was even more an abomination than his brethren). Once he got hold of it, he had become strangely reluctant to part with it and postponed his prank, always keeping the poison on himself (he slept with it, even). It’s sheer destructive magnitude was greater than anything he’d ever possessed. The feeling was almost sensual. He would give it to Sherlock, though. He would give anything to Sherlock.

 

"I have poison. Do you want it?" might be what he needs, but that would make him look dangerous, and he didn't want Sherlock to label him so, lest people (aka Mycroft) decide that he wasn't worthy of being at Sherlock's side.

 

In the end, Jim spent all his free time stalking Sherlock, never building up courage enough to talk to him. He didn't notice anything or anyone else. He surely didn't notice Carl Powers tailing him. Under any other circumstance he would have because Carl smelled like a threat, however faint. If Carl had lived in Dublin, Jim would have naturally recruited him in his pack. If that had been the case, the young boy would have known that Jim was better than him and would never have tried to cross him.

 

Instead, Carl was from the Sussex team and fancied himself an alpha. Compared to Jim, he was a mi (at most, and being charitable about it), but he was too stupid to realize instinctively what he was dealing with. The lack of such an instinct is never good for any creature. It always gets the unfortunate being hurt or worse. In Carl's case, it was definitely worse. For him, at least.

 

Unaware of the possible consequences, Powers had quietly followed Jim. With the Irish boy's physique and quiet attitude, Carl had pegged him for easy prey, and a bit of bullying on the side would keep Carl in good spirits. Ensuring he had one less serious competitor too, if he managed to scare the other boy enough, and wouldn’t that a nice bonus? Not to mention that Jim's obvious eagerness gave him hope that perhaps there was fun to be had – beyond the bullying. Jim's star struck eyes were something precious to behold to Powers.

 

When Jim returned from his covert Sherlock trailing, he was subjected to a veritable barrage of public, very humiliating, and completely idiotic homophobic slurs (and it was simply indecent how easily the other boys went along with that). He was asked if he was a good little slut or if he was saving himself for the guy he was in love with. It was unfounded (he loved Sherly, he wasn't in love – he didn't think so) but Jim didn't explain. His tormentors didn’t have enough brain cells among all of them to make even one mildly passable brain. They'd never get it.

 

Still, Jim could have let it slide. He didn't like it – it was positively distasteful – but it wasn't as if Jim cared about his reputation among the people gathered there. Much less what his team thought of him. Neither were part of his pack. But then Carl Powers slipped. He insulted Sherlock. For a moment, a single moment, Jim wished to be built like some of his underlings, powerful enough to flatten Carl like the bug he was. Or even to be a dog again, so he could fillet his lying throat and drink his blood (they'd probably put him down again, though). Instead, he simply walked past everyone, without a word. His hand almost crushed the botulin vial within its white-knuckled hold. He vowed to make Carl Powers realize that he'd just picked a fight with the wrong boy.

 

Two days later, Carl Powers, young promise of Sussex swimming, had a fit and drowned in the swimming pool. His beloved shoes disappeared.

 

It was a necessity, of course. But a beloved one. He loved that tale where once the dragon was killed, someone else tried to claim the princess, but the hero had cut out the dragon's tongue proving he was the rightful dragon-slayer and thereby being justly rewarded. These shoes might be useful in a similar fashion one day. Besides, it was nice to have a memento. Hunters did it all the time, particularly with noxious beasts.

 

His first human kill. His life became marvellous after it. The police arrived, of course, and Jim should have been scared. Instead, he was mildly thrilled. The risk was giving him a lovely feeling. Pitifully short, mind you, because DI Jones and his team were clearly dim-witted. How could they find the answer when they never even managed to ask the right questions?

 

But then, oh, it was heaven. Because Sherlock came, sneaking in, trying to attract a policeman's attention, and asking the right questions. It was then that Jim realized it. He might not have said a word to Sherly – he still didn't, because Sherlock would so not give him the time of the day now – but they were playing once again. They were playing cops and robbers (well, murderers) with Jim's future at stake and it was such a rush. It was the best game ever. Better than any common, and ultimately boring game they could have played. If he won this round (which it looked like he would, because nobody wanted to hear Sherlock out, the idiots) he would want to play it again. Absolutely. He was hooked.

 

Dejected, Sherlock gave up and left. Jim never accosted him. He missed his chance again. Oh well. He would find another way to become friends. One better pondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. About the 'mi' remark. The packs of dogs, wolves and other related species have a precise social hierarchy. Men use the Greek alphabet to describe it, with alpha (α), the first letter, to indicate the leader (or the leading male-female couple, who reproduce) down to omega (ω), the last letter, for the one who obeys everyone else. Mi (μ) is the twelfth letter out of twenty six, so Carl would be mid-rank, and still with plenty people better than him beyond Jim.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Conan Doyle and BBC share the rights. I just play with them.

After his London trip, Jim was busy. So many things to do, so little time. Days were gone before he knew what he'd done with them. Months followed suit. Years, too. One day he blinked and wondered where his teen years had gone. Blinked again, and since that fateful again when he discovered his calling, a decade had past. At least being busy meant that he had little time to be bored. A blessing, that – the highest grace he received since he's been allowed a second chance, indeed. What has he done, you ask?

 

Discovered sex, for one. Apparently he came back from London sexy. Beaming with an inner radiance that attracted people like moths, if only he bothered to focus it towards them. Add to that his acting prowess (he can be anything: devilish, innocent, adorable, confident), there was no one Jim couldn't get if he fancied them. Ironically, it turned out Carl Powers was at least half-right in his accusations (not that it's sensible to accuse anyone about their preferences). Jim didn't mind the gender of his partners, he just enjoyed the game.

 

Manipulating people, making the unfortunate soul fall utterly for him – and consequently into his own hands – obtaining favours they wouldn't normally do, was his forte. He was fickle, naturally, leaving a number of broken hearts in his wake. It wasn't that he actually fell in love with any of them. Nobody was wonderful enough to hold his interest for long. He was just playing, and no actor can be expected to play the same role too long. Of course he dumped them (never the reverse, oh no.) The only true turn off for him was major stupidity– a quota of idiocy was, after all, inevitable. No matter the game, the bet, he'd never ever be able to seduce the pretty ditz type. He wasn't finicky about who he bedded, but he had standards.

 

Then there was the matter of keeping his parents, relatives, and generally older people who might make a fuss about his true interests blind and happy. Jim wasn't going to give up his place as daddy's good boy. It brought too many perks. And really, now wasn't the time to 'come out' and be disowned. There would never be a time for that, in all probability. So, he worked to be everyone's favourite. And honestly, it was easy. "Jim has so much potential," "He's so clever," "He's so dynamic." These were the things adults said about him.

 

Of course, there was the 'problem' that he changed career plans every six months or so. But it was only because he could become anything if he set his heart on it. He was just trying out his options before he had to choose definitively. He was still young, after all. There was no rush to settle down. His resume had everything. Never a month when he wasn't doing something, whether it was studying (from computer science to Japanese) or working. Sometimes both. Of course, it didn't help him to settle the fact that he was so smart. What would take others years, he assimilated in weeks. He never bothered with beginner courses. A couple weeks of self study and he was ready for the advanced levels.

 

If Jim had been simply a genius, his parents would have worried about how he could have friends. Extraordinary intellect often brought on others people's envy and hatred. But occasionally he’d invited a few boys over, and they’d been unfailingly polite. It proved that not only Jim had friends. He was friend with good lads. So, you see? "Jim really is perfect." "We are so lucky." "He seems to have skipped the rebellious phase." His parents' words, now and again. After all, Jim didn't listen to vulgar music (you can't really complain about Beethoven). He didn't frequent weird company. He didn't do drugs. ("Oh God no; not Jim.")

 

About his working experience, it was the same. He didn't settle, but he always had some sort of very reasonable argument to change jobs. Not just, "I'm bored with this," though that sentence was heard more than once. The boy picked up a new language in a month (actually less but he couldn't find shorter courses, and he liked having the certification). Routine bored him. It was to be expected.

 

The only time he never mentioned being bored was when he worked as a freelance actor – dad reckoned he just loved the applause – but even that didn't last. Mom was so happy, when he picked her maiden name for his pseudonym. Richard was chosen as homage to his dad's favourite actor – Sir Attenborough – so both his parents were flattered by the stage name. But like all his endeavours, even his stage name and acting eventually ended.

 

For Jim, a job was no more than a cover for his true calling. His pack. The game he so looked forward to. He needed to become better. He needed to become worthy of Sherlock. Able to create something fun. Artistic, too. Year after year, he upgraded. His pack left behind those too coward to follow his plots. He acquired new, better men (and women; let's not forget the ladies, they can be wonderfully vicious). Before he had had simple thugs. Now Jim finally could start with true crime.

 

Gangs already at work tried to crush his pack, but Jim showed them that he could do everything they did, only better and safer. The police always – always – was stumped on Jim's cases. Jim advertised what he could do, and offered people a choice. Did they really want to work alone and risk getting caught? Or would they follow him and have things go smoothly if only they could manage to obey?

 

Of course, some still didn't like the price for the advantages Jim could bring. They fought him. Well, he had tales and myths to take inspiration from. These people didn't just die. Oh no. They were found in pieces all over their turf. Or flayed. Or otherwise slaughtered in creative, flashy ways. He wanted to make an impression, after all.

 

Slowly but surely, his business grew. New lines of work opened up all the time, and Jim excelled in every last one, whether it was human trafficking, drugs, crime hits, or whatever else you can imagine. He was always dealing with men, after all, and they were all too easy to predict and manipulate. If it wasn't for the game to come, he'd have become bored with this too. Instead, he pressed on. He became the top dog of every crime lord out there. A celebrity in his own field. If secrecy wasn't so pivotal to their business, he'd have acquired a loud fanbase. He became loved. Hated. Feared. Wasn't it the best?

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Yet.

Jim would have liked to be able to say that his minions were a disposable mass of pawns for him to play with. Pawns that did not matter. Not one of his minions was of any significance, he told himself. It was only Sherlock, he and the game. Only it wasn't true. This wasn't a game where every piece was equally useful – or, from another point of view, useless. This was chess. A chessboard didn’t contain only mere pawns. Jim had at the very least his bishop and his knight. (Rooks were boring and of course he was queen; in chess, the king was bored to tears too.)

 

He wasn't talking about his sub-commanders in the various branches. They were little more than glorified pawns and would do better to follow to the letter Jim's instructions if they wished to keep their limbs intact.

 

Then there was his bishop. Not that there was anything holy about him except that he looked scrumptious in purple. Calling the piece alfiere – which was ancient military rank, half standard bearer and half sous-lieutenant – like Italians did was a better option. His alfiere, indeed. Because for the life of him Jim had no idea what else to call Sebastian.

 

His parents, of course, would have called him a childhood friend. Ridiculous. Jim had no friends but Sherlock...even if the latter didn't know it yet.

 

Ethnologists would have described him as Jim's beta and they would be right about potential, of course, but Seb hadn't obtained sucha high rank in the organization so it didn't exactly fit.

 

Of course that same fact excluded Sebastian from being his right hand man too. Jim didn't need anyone close to the top. Not even those who might be useful as a lieutenant (and that was Seb...and Seb.)

He and Jim were off-again, on-again lovers – obviously – when Jim was in between proper conquests. You could hardly expect Jim to give up sex once the game of it was momentarily off. It was fun in its own right, after all. Seb was always so deliciously creative – almost as if he hoped that he'd be allowed to keep Jim if he was entertaining enough. (It wouldn't happen, let's not be fanciful.)But that hardly defined them. Jim had tons of playmates.

 

And Seb wasn't a simple follower, if only because of that time when he hadn't followed Jim's orders. He had given Jim what the other wasn't even aware to want – to need, instead. Jim's business was growing, and he needed to hire a number of guns. Jim had grumbled now and again about how arrogant and irritating snipers were. And then Sebastian had the gall to leave him. The army didn't need Seb. He needed Seb to vent. But Sebastian had still gone...and come back 18 months later, a proper colonel and a certified sniper ("I know you like certificates, Jimmy," he'd laughed) and dishonourably discharged for torturing civilians in Iraq.

 

"I taught you better than that," Jim had snidely remarked. Getting caught was for idiots.

 

Seb had snorted. "I had to be back, didn't I?"

 

Oh. Oh. He'd let himself be caught in order to be sent back. To Jim. Well, that was flattering.

 

"You needed at least one sniper that you could stand otherwise, you'd be careless and send them all to get killed, and after you'd be sniper-less. As a crime lord, you really can't afford that," Seb had explained.

Jim could have kissed him, but he didn't. Not then. Seb had to grovel for leaving in the first place. (He did. Of course he did.)

 

So Sebastian was his alfiere, and his sniper. He would be disposable, Jim guessed, if the game really called for it. But he'd really rather not. Dangerous thinking, but as long as Jim didn't give himself away – and people were so unobservant – it didn't matter.

For the longest time it was all he had – Seb, the organization, and Sherlock. Well, the prospect of Sherlock. He could have run back to him the moment he came of age, but he would have had to renounce this particular game. There was simply no way that he could live beside – maybe even with – Sherlock and run the organization without his friend noticing it. He had to choose between being by Sherlock's side or playing with him. Surely, Sherlock would prefer playing? What good was he if he stood by Sherlock but was boring? Sherlock already had plenty of boring people. And everything – everything – was boring in comparison to the battle of wits, with lives at stake that they had already played once.

 

If Jim couldn't meet him yet, it didn't mean that he had no way to keep tabs on Sherlock. Everyone had hobbies. Jim's was long-distance stalking. And he was extremely effective at it, like everything else he endeavoured. He heard of explosions in the lab, and he laughed. Of misconduct Sherlock tried to cover as scientific research, and he pitied Sherlock. Trying to make ordinary people understand was something Jim had given up since childhood, as an impossible feat. One Sherlock was still attempting, apparently. His friend was a dreamer, wasn't he?

 

But then Vic – Victor Trevor – came in the picture, and Jim seethed. Who gave him the right? Victor couldn't match Sherlock adequately. He wasn't born for Sherlock. What business did he have hanging with Sherlock? What if he brought Sherlock down – ruined him? How could Jim protect him from becoming ordinary?

 

In the end, it turned out to be surprisingly easy. Jim dug up all he could on Trevor and – would you believe it? - there was dirt on Trevor Senior if one only bothered to look. Quite a lot of dirt. So, it became almost instinctive to make it another round in their private game. The game Sherlock still had no idea he was playing, but enjoyed nonetheless. If it allowed him to get rid of Victor at the same time, it was just killing two birds with one stone. Well, not actually killing, as fun as that would be. Ruining the Trevors was still more satisfying. They'd hurt longer. They hadn't earned the mercy of death.

 

Using a dummy – an eager dummy, once he was told that he could keep all the profits from the operation – Jim started to blackmail Trevor Senior. Naturally, once a crime was underway, Sherlock was drawn to it like a moth to a most brilliant flame. He didn’t come to support his so-called friend, Jim was sure. He was playing the game. Jim won last time; this time it was a draw, and Jim was satisfied.

 

Even though the dummy ended up in jail, but he wouldn't implicate Jim in his crime. Moriarty promised him refunds for the failed operation. As in, it didn't matter if the police froze the money he received from Trevor Senior. Jim would give him just as much when he was out of prison with an added bonus for the time he served to top things off. He was more than rich enough to afford this. There would be no reason for his employee to rat Jim out.

 

He was satisfied at least, because his man had ousted everything there was to know about Trevor. It gave Sherlock a lesson in the rules, hopefully. When dealing with blackmailers, it didn't matter catching them. The only thing that mattered was shutting them up – by any means necessary. The Trevors were ruined, and Vic had no money or peace of mind to continue frequenting the university. Jim had gotten rid of him. Seb grumbled about this round's outcome, but Jim was elated.

 

He didn't expect the consequences, though. He thought Sherly knew better. But – Sherlock had failed, in a sense. He was sad. He was lonely. He was – mostly – bored, Jim supposed. So Sherlock turned to drugs. Jim didn't stop him. (How could he? And really, he wasn't a guardian angel. Not his role in this play.)

Instead he sent a warning to the drug dealers in Sherlock's area, complete with photos so they couldn't claim ignorance. Sherlock was to be given only the very best of drugs. And if he did overdose in some drug den, and someone present noticed – and someone better notice it – an anonymous call to 999 was to be made promptly. If Sherlock died because he did something mixed with chalk or other impurity, or was left to die, Jim would track the dealer responsible, pound them into soap and use it to clean their own crime scene. He had no idea what people thought about his relationship with Sherlock – lover, relative, prospective employer – and he frankly didn't care.

 

There was still the risk that Sherlock would buy drugs and overdose at home, but Jim trusted Mycroft – to a point. He knew that he wasn't the only stalker dear Sherly had (they shared many informants, unbeknownst to Mike) and he bloody well hoped that big brother had set up safety measures at Sherlock's abode. Still, he wished he could have a short talk with Sherlock to promise him that he wouldn't be bored for long and therefore he should quit messing up his brain, dammit! But he knew it wouldn't have any effect, so he refrained.

 

When he was consulted about a crime that supposedly occurred next to the drug den Sherlock favourited, he laughed out loud. Round three! If he was less careful than usual – if he accounted for Sherlock not being at his best – if he let him win (well, not entirely, or overtly, or it'd be no fun) he was entirely justified. As planned, Sherlock stumbled on the crime scene, solved it, and re-entered their lovely game. When Lestrade – such a good cop, it was delightful to use good people without them knowing – refused to let him help anymore if Sherlock didn't clean up, his Sherly went to rehab. Jim shared a tiny bit of credit for that. Sherlock was back to playing cop – well, on the cops' side anyway – and Jim was more than ready to be a fun criminal. Oh, how happy they'd make each other!

 

The consultant detective was born – on the wake and for the prompting of the consultant criminal, even if he was unaware of that. It wasn't yet time for Jim to meet Sherly in person, though. The conditions weren't perfect, and Sherlock deserved nothing less than perfect. Jim's grand revelation must be spun as a fantastic, albeit grim tale. And his team wasn't yet just right. When Sherlock properly started the Work, Jim's side still missed his knight. He didn't know what he was waiting for, exactly, he wouldn't until he found it – her. (Who said knights were all boys?) When Seb (he needed to be so grateful to Sebastian!) found her, it was the opening of a new season. Finally ready for the true game. Not the odd warm-up round. No more achingly wistful stalking. Getting to Sherlock, truly. It was time for that dream to come true.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: BBC and Conan Doyle own it all. I play.

When Sebastian met HER she was running away from her past. Some people would have liked to flay her and make her into shoes – or perhaps a nice cape – so she chose to relocate. Seb always thought about what Jim might need, and there was a single line on her resume that made him decide to bring her to his boss. She had a small measure of medical knowledge.

 

Jim favoured torture – he enjoyed it – but these sessions always needed medical personnel present. You didn’t want your victim to accidentally die. Instead of going through the trouble of coercing people to participate, having someone who, like Jim, saw the beauty in affliction and even offered the odd useful suggestion was so much better. The fact that she was a good shot was an added bonus. Under Jim's wing she’d be untouchable, and she was all too eager to agree with their job offer.

 

It was a match made in heaven. She was changeable, almost as much as Jim and often switched between identities. Whether it was the playful Alice, the classy Geraldine, the sensual Rose, or someone else, she was always perfect in her disguise and wickedly good at whatever Jim required of her. She wasn't mentally ill, not as such, but she liked her impersonations. Jim had so much fun with her, even if sometimes their moods clashed, causing Seb to worry that they'd lose their medical officer (Damn! The army left him imprinted).

 

Working together and having fun during their sessions brought their relationship to the next level of enjoyment -- just the two of them, in a whole different and new way. And while Sebastian knew that he had no permission to be jealous he became terrified that he was going to be supplanted. After all, she had his skill set in addition to her own, and Jim liked her as much as he liked anyone. Of course, he didn't actually say it. It was too cute.

 

Jim organized a few threesomes that included his brave alfiere, his lovely, soldierly chess piece in their play. He liked them both. Putting them in competition for his favours in bed was such fun and so pleasurable that he really couldn't help himself. Sometimes he joked about putting the both of them on a breeding program – their children could be perfect little minions. But the thought of her with morning sickness precluded such minion-making. Such ideas stayed as a pipe dream for the moment.

 

With her, Jim gained his knight. After all, that is the most oddly moving piece on a chessboard, and sometimes her moves were frankly weird – and that coming from Jim. She was the one who got the closest to surprising Jim, though she didn't. She had her own tells, and Jim was keen on reading humans.

 

His reading ability gave him the occasion for a lovely, proper game. Jim owned a recreation center. He needed to put his profits somewhere after all, and it was delightfully ironic. Everything was a game for him, and his criminal fun's earnings were put into buying actual, ordinary toys. He frequented the place sometimes. They organized a chess tournament and all kind of people signed up to it. One, an unassuming, tired old man, won every time.

 

"You can read what they'll do," Jim remarked. "So boring, right?"

 

The man shrugged, but he didn't disagree.

 

Jim expected nothing to come from having met this kindred soul, until suddenly he did.

 

"I'm very sorry," he told the same man the following day, after the games' end.

 

"About what?"

 

"You got horrible news, I can see. Won't you share?"

Hope – such an ironic name for a man who had been denied it – did, because Jim was putting on his gently concerned face, the one nobody could resist.

 

"Don't you want to live once before you die?...No, no, it won't be enough. You need a different motivation. But please, let me show you something. You – well, not you, you wouldn't care now – your child –...no, children, right? – will profit from it. And you'll have fun," Jim exclaimed, suddenly excited.

 

He brought Hope in the back – more like dragged him, actually – and showed him his business emails.

 

"Who...what are you?" Hope queried, shocked and not a little terrified.

 

"You just read it, dear. Jim Moriarty, evil mastermind," Jim laughed merrily. "Or – problem solver. But what I really like to think about myself is, player extraordinaire. Just don't go talking around about me. It would mean that you'd be quite braver than the most seasoned human traffickers and I would have to take certain -- measures. And while you're dying, I can make it excruciating. I’m telling you this for your good, really.”

 

"Why show me?"

 

Jim quite liked Hope. He was demonstrating a considerable hold on his wits that normal people wouldn't have. He was special, all right. "I want you to play on my team. As I said, there will be a nice bonus for you. Very nice. You don't have much, do you? Wouldn't you like to leave a nice sum to your kids? Money always helps in this cruel world." Jim offered him a smirk with too many teeth.

 

"And how would I play?" Hope queried. Hook, line and sinker. Perfect.

 

"You bet your life. It isn't even worth much, is it? You're going to die soon anyway, what's a tiny bit sooner if you fail?" Jim answered gaily.

 

"Details," the other uttered curtly.

 

And Jim gave him the details of the game; outlining them at the same time he thought them up, eager in painting the picture of what was to come. Such a delightful, clever game.

 

"You want me to...kill people?" Hope croaked.

 

"Strangers. To provide for your children. I could even threaten them to make you comply, but I honestly like you and I'd rather not. Positive reinforcements works better than anything, I think."

 

"I'd really rather you didn't, too," Hope sighed, defeated. "I guess it means that I'm doing it. So I’m playing on your team against these random people. Is that how it is, then? You said that I could pick them?"

 

"No, no, no, no!" Jim protested, his voice escalating at the wrongness of it. "You bet against them, of course, but they don't matter. They're just pawns. Ways to attract attention. What we're teaming against are obviously the police. Did you never play cops and robbers? Not that you'd be a thief, but I thought it was self-evident."

 

"The police," Hope said flatly, disbelieving.

 

"You’d think this should be an easy win for us. You have no motive, the victims are random...You'd be right, of course. But, you see, they have someone on their side too. A consultant," the criminal announced, beaming.

 

"A what?"

 

"My counterpart. In a sense, myself once gone through the looking glass. Look!" Jim pulled up enthusiastically The Science of Deduction website. "If you doubt Sherlock, I'll be seriously put out," he warned. "He's the one you'll be really playing against. The one you should try to have a bet with, if at all possible. He'll appreciate your hard work, I'm sure. It's clever. He likes clever. Of course he does. He's the greatest mind of the century, after all (well, we both are). If you get bored, imagine how it must be for him."

 

Jim gushed a bit more – fine, a lot more – about Sherlock, but really, once he got started on that subject it was hard to stop himself. He didn't get to extol Sherly nearly as often as he would have liked. In the end, he took Hope's address and promised to send him a batch of pills soon, before sending him on his merry way.

 

Someone ordinary would have been shocked that Jim had suggested Hope gamble with Sherlock and so put his friend's life at risk. But Jim believed in Sherlock. His Sherly would pick the right pill. And who was Jim to begrudge him the delightful rush of risking his life?

 

Jim had such great expectations for this round. It was something Sherlock would be grateful to him for, he was sure of it. A neat trick like this wasn't ordinary after all. The criminal classes – Jim knew them better than anyone – could be dull in the extreme.

 

Jim could never be angry at Hope. The man did his job remarkably well. He earned a lot, but then Jim believed in properly recompensing his men. But, in the end, the game was ruined.

 

And Jim had had a silly grin plastered on his face since the start of this game, so he was particularly put out by its pitiful conclusion. Serial suicides. The police didn't even know a serial killer unless one declared himself by sending them wooing poetry like good old Jack. They needed Sherlock like they'd never needed him before (usually they at least recognized murder). He would doubtlessly be consulted, and Jim wondered what would it take for them to recognize how impossible it was for them to solve this. How long it would be before Sherlock solved it once it was finally brought to him. A week? A day? An hour? But in the end, Sherlock didn't even get to play – to bet his life – and why had Jim worked to organize all this then? It was galling.

 

Mike spilled the beans (the man didn't even realize that he was one of Jim's regular informants – he was just chatty) What had happened soon became painfully obvious. Sherlock gained an ex-military flatmate and the criminal he was chasing was mysteriously killed. Not a difficult leap to make. Jim hadn't thought that any flatmate of Sherlock could turn out to be so meddlesome.

 

And the man's unneeded heroics would comprehensibly make Sherlock become fond of him. After all, Jim could attest that it was hard not to fancy a bloke who killed for you. And, after the first blog post (Jim kept the site in his favourites despite his loathing for its author), it was clear that at the very least John appreciated Sherlock. Unused to that, the detective would find it only too tempting to reciprocate. He was protecting the doctor from the police – there was no way the detective didn't know – so he clearly wanted to keep this one.

 

Jim had thought that after Victor the sleuth had learnt his lesson. Maybe his Sherlock would need another reminder of which man he was truly born for? Surely these things worked two-ways?

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing mine yet.

The job with the Black Lotus was supposed to be merely business. Not a game, or other entertainment. The Chinese mafia wanted help in extending their operations, and Jim was ready to offer it. That, and permission.  
After all, they wanted to work in London, and London was his playground. His home turf. He might have been born in Ireland, but once he'd conquered the city of London, he'd swiftly transferred his headquarters. Sherlock was here. The detective loved it here. As a result, Jim loved London – he loved owning it – too.

Jim had been quick to concede his assent and expertise to the Chinese gang. They repaid him with generous amounts of money – a sort of tax on their work. Their activities happened on his terms - the way he liked them.

Jim had just the tiniest bit of fun when, on a whim, he suggested a particular name. The man was unscrupulous, greedy, and hypocritical enough to be a perfect mule. His public position and reputation ensured that he would go unnoticed by the cops, while the rest of his unpleasant character made it so that he'd be certainly interested in the deal.

Jim remembered well Wilkes (who so didn't deserve to have the same first name of his proud Seb) from Sherlock's uni days. The human slime had been one of his more enthusiastic informants. Of course, he had to be taught to stick to facts. Jim really wasn't interested in Wilkes' opinions about Sherlock. The man didn't have enough brain cells to deserve having an opinion actually. Seeing his recompense halved for every insinuation or needless (derogatory; he dared) adjective aimed at Sherlock in Uni quickly made the slime stop such comments. Jim had toyed with the idea of killing Wilkes once Sherlock had dropped out of university, but in the end decided he wasn't worth the hassle.

Which was just as well, because then came the day where Jim's business email received a message from Wilkes. It asked if he was still interested in Holmes because he had fresh news. Jim, obviously, was interested. Wilkes' enthusiasm while he recounted that little quip about John Watson’s role dripped with far too much satisfaction as Jim read his computer screen. 

Jim had very mixed feelings about it. On one hand, that Sherlock declared John a friend – and so quickly – was worrying. That clearly wasn't – couldn't be – John's role. He'd be usurping Jim's place if such was the case. But Sherlock said he was. Did he want it to be true? Wasn't it too soon to have taken such a shine to someone?Had John's accidental salvation shot made that much of an impression?

Then, of course, there was Watson's correction. Jim didn't know if he wanted to tell him, "Good boy," for knowing his place, yell at him for daring to correct Sherlock or just downright eliminate him. Now that last one was a tempting thought. It would ensure that Sherlock didn't get attached to anyone. Then again, it woudl send Sherlock right back to needing a flatmate.  
If he searched for one, John did have his uses, Jim supposed. The doctor probably fetched things. Ran errands. Good help was rare to come across. Jim would let this one slip pass for now. But he would monitor Watson's words, actions and relationship with Sherly very, very closely.

With the mail, he was informed of the details of the case, too. Understanding that someone had tried to double cross the Black Lotus was immediate. After all, Jim knew Chinese numbers. And considering the level of idiocy required for that, the criminal consultant had a hunch about who did it, too. Not that he'd help them out in weeding out the double crosser unless he was asked to – but it was probable that the Black Lotus wouldn't want – or dare – to bring strangers into this very internal matter of theirs.  
No, now that he'd been handed a game – even if he didn't organize it fully – he only had to sit back and find some popcorn. And maybe make sure that his next mail to the Lotus 'accidentally' had a link to John Watson's blog. Sherlock might appreciate their style. Jim had been to the circus, once. Without letting them know his true nature, of course, just as a regular client. But he'd been curious about their cover. He wanted to see how good it was, know if he needed to teach them the basics, and so he'd gone.  
Now, he sent Rose to secure a mole inside the Black Lotus. Since he only required reports about the Holmes matter, and wouldn't dream to ask people to do – or do not – anything against their orders, she found one easily. The first information from that source left Jim puzzled. 'Holmes stood by his lady friend while the other man with them snooped around'? This wasn't how his Sherlock behaved. It would mean letting someone else have all the fun, after all. And 'lady friend'? Which lady? Had Sherlock finally decided to involve Molly much more in his life and his Work, surely much to her delight?

Such out of character actions were explained in the next report. Of course Sherly hadn't left someone else – even his precious sidekick – enjoy the game. He couldn't have trusted him to observe what needed noticing, after all. No, simply the Black Lotus men had mistaken the flirty doctor for his detective. Outrageous.

The mistake, worthy only for an idiotic rookie, had given Sherlock the chance to sweep in with his metaphorical shining armour and save the day, both Watson and his date. Sherlock had probably enjoyed that – being the hero of the day.  
And at least now he'd saved the doctor back and wouldn't need to feel indebted to him. Oh yes, this was good. Now Watson wouldn't be that "sexy thing who ruthlessly killed to save my life". He'd be demoted to "the fool who got himself caught like a beginner". Sherlock now would notice how ordinary he was and stop daydreaming about making a friend.

Jim should have thanked the Black Lotus for that error, but of course he couldn't. Such mistakes were simply unpardonable. It was a wonder that they'd managed their traffics until then if they were so clumsy.  
Now that Sherlock had won the game, police's involvement was sure to follow. And once they had the Black Lotus, no matter how careful Jim had been in dealing with them, they might trace things back to him.  
Oh well. No worries. What one Sebastian started, another could end. A clean job this time. Seb was, after all, so protective of him. His Colonel would be careful. There was no way the police would find the Black Lotus. Find their bodies, that is.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing mine.  
> A.N. Sorry about the overly long chapter, but Jim insisted that we go through this word for word, or as close to it as possible. God bless Ariane DeVere, thrice, for every transcription she did. Thirty three times, if I'm not wrong. This wouldn't be possible without her. As for the ridiculous bit that goes against canon, that's not mine but born from fanart by meetingyourmaker seen on Tumblr and I couldn't help but adopt it.

Jim literally and physically ached with the need for Sherlock's recognition. Sherly should be thinking about him. He should be grateful to him for all the entertainment Jim provided – and would continue to give. But first contact had to be special. Jim changed ideas often about how such an event should go. In the end, he decided to choose – all of them.

The preparations, of course, took a while. Everything needed to be in place. All had to be just perfect. The hardest part wasn't organizing things so they'd all come to fruition in the right window of time. No, instead, the hardest part was dating the little pathologist. It was not because she was already in love with someone else. Jim had the perfect mix between true genius (which he actually toned down a bit) and (fake) social awkwardness that made him so exactly her type that Molly never had a chance to resist him. 'Creating' an opening in Saint Bart's and getting hired – that was easy. And neither was it hard enduring long Glee marathons. Her obsession with felines, though, was almost more than Jim could handle. Thank God that her cat at least was 'uncharacteristically shy' towards him. The fur ball knew not to risk his life. It took a lot of patience but, in the end, Molly was acquired.

Big brother was conveniently distracted with that little matter of the Bruce-Partington plans, and wouldn't try to meddle in the game. Jim had a few consultations going that he could afford to lose without being too inconvenienced, varied enough to show off how extensive his expertise really was. Sherlock had nothing else to focus on (it wouldn't do to risk coming second in his priorities) and had to be unspeakably bored by now. It was time to play.

Jim's heart accelerated in response to the report of gunshots from 221B. Bored enough to shoot things? Sherly needed him. Needed him even if he didn't know it yet. It was to be the greatest game that they'd played yet. The explosion was a nice touch, Jim thought. Nothing said hello quite like destruction so close that you felt it. Sherlock felt the folds of destruction’s skirt brush up against him but the explosion was far enough away, and so controlled that he never was in any real danger of being hurt. And the blown-up house was Jim’s anyway (of course it was – well, of a shadow company). He needed a base next to Sherlock, and he'd spent long hours there, stalking him and wishing that the time was right to approach him.

The pink phone was a careful choice, too. With what Jim had planned for the end of this game, it would look like a nostalgic detail, contributing to make Sherlock doubt his new pet (oh, how Jim hated him). And since the pink seemed to call for a feminine touch, he didn't write the address on the envelope himself. He might have asked Geraldine, but she was a bit pouty and jealous seeing him all fired up about Sherlock. She wasn't Sebastian, who knew better than do that, and was starting to rapidly lose points. She'd pay for that, eventually. Instead, Jim asked it as a favour from one of his most recent client. Irene looked like someone who could prove entertaining past their business. She had half a brain, at least, and did this for him with wonderful calligraphy and without questions.

The moment the phone was finally in Sherlock's hands (of course the nice DI would deliver it) Jim, half jittery, sent the pips and the first photo. Round one began. Jim himself planted the evidence the day prior, in a moment when 221 was empty. The basement wasn't exactly Fort Knox. Nor was the house. Jim picked both locks easily, and left no trace. He was a professional, and couldn't show less prowess than Sherlock himself. Jim missed his trophy already, but it was worth giving it up for the sake of bringing Sherly on a trip down memory lane.

Now, if only the bitch he kidnapped wasn't so whiny. If Jim could talk to Sherlock in his own voice. But it wasn't yet time. And anyway, every game should have a reward. She was the prize, and they must know about it. Still, there very few worse ways to deliver, “Hello, sexy.” Jim was miffed, but he ploughed on, “I've sent you a little puzzle, just to say hi.”

Then he had to explain, because all that crying puzzled Sherlock, “I'm not crying.” Jim shook his head even when Sherlock couldn't see him. “I'm typing and the stupid bitch is reading it out.” Would it kill her to breathe normally for five minutes?

He didn't tell Sherlock who he was yet. It was much too soon. He set the rules. “Twelve hours, to solve my puzzle, Sherlock, or I'm going to be so naughty.” He ended the call. No point in conversation, especially if it was so pitifully delivered. Twelve hours should be enough for him to remember. If it wasn't, Jim would be very disappointed.

He hoped Sherly appreciated the hint of sexual teasing. It was half a promise. It hadn't started like that, but he very much wouldn't mind helping Sherlock get rid of his virginity. Now if only it hadn't been delivered with so many tears maybe Sherly would have started to mull it over...Oh well. There'd be time to further his advances.

If Sherlock running around in a flurry of manic energy wasn't enough of a sight, he – naturally – brought his loot back to Bart's for analysis. And Jim could finally – _finally_ (insert heavy sigh) – approach him. All his enduring of Molly’s cats paid up now.

He'd like to dress up for such a momentous occasion, but he was Molly's Jim so he dressed the part. And behaved the part, too, making to retreat seeing that she was busy when all he wanted was to beeline towards Sherlock and madly wag a tail he didn't even have anymore. He was starting to feel a phantom limb for the first time in his life. As expected, Mols called him in and 'introduced' Sherlock. Jim could only exclaim wordlessly. It fit with his awkward persona, but words – once again – escaped him for a moment, overcome by emotion as he was.

Sadly, Sherlock wasn't alone. He brought along his new pet – Jim's replacement. Jim forced himself to be cordial, but dark satisfaction welled up at Molly forgetting the lackey's name, forcing John Watson to introduce himself. If he'd stood by Sherlock's side, she wouldn't have forgotten him. He dismissed John right away, returning to gaze in admiration and a bit of longing at Sherlock's back.

He tried for conversation that he knew would only irritate Sherlock, but he wanted his attention on himself, if for a moment. “So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?”

Jim walked closer to Sherlock, like a needle met with a magnet, driving his replacement to move out of the way. Molly joined in the meaningless conversation, and he giggled with her at the appropriate time. His heart skipped a bit when Sherlock finally spared him a single glance before going back to his microscope. And deduced what Jim wanted him to deduce. “Gay.”

But then things went wrong. Instead of really deducing him, Sherlock retracted behind a, “Nothing,” and a false smile at Molly's shock. Jim didn't want that. He wanted the whole show. Maybe he wasn’t direct enough? He couldn’t help himself from constantly smiling adoringly after all this time waiting to meet him. He was awkward and clever all at the same time, upsetting things and leaving Sherlock his number. Not that Sherlock would call when he was focused on their other calls, but one never knew. His plans went perfectly, but the nervous arm-scratching of Jim was only half an act. He _was_ nervous. _“Come on, notice me! Deduce me, do me, anything me! Please!”_ he mentally begged. Instead Sherlock only silently facepalmed at Jim's awkwardness (or at his boldness; or both).

And now Jim had really no reason to stay. He played the affectionate boyfriend for a moment more, then said goodbye to Sherlock with a, “It was nice to meet you,” letting his eyes express all his wistfulness. Sherlock ignored him – of course, he was busy playing – and _Watson_ , of all people, felt entitled to answer in lieu of his master, breaking the embarrassing silence that allowed Jim to stay a few seconds more, waiting for a reply. Jim blinked at him (he'd honestly forgotten the bloke was here) and left.

He didn't go far. He stopped just this side of the door. He couldn't make himself leave. So he heard Sherlock finally – finally! – deduce him, noticing everything, down to the brand of his underwear. Jim grinned, ecstatic. But why hadn't Sherlock done this when he was there? Was he becoming _polite_? Christ, he hoped not.

Jim barely had time to hid in a nearby supply closet when he deduced Mols would be storming away any moment. When she disappeared, upset, he went back to his place at the door. But he shouldn't have. Sherlock was prompting deductions out of _John_ of all people, as if his input could ever be useful. Or as if Sherlock wanted – as if John _deserved_ – for his assistant to be taught deductions. It was Jim's turn to storm away, upset.

Not long after that, the first round ended with a message on Sherlock's website. _Found. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221B Baker Street._ Jim called him right away through the bitch. “Well done, you.” He very much meant that. “Come and get me,” and he didn't only mean for them to collect their whiny reward. Not that she knew anything that could make them get Jim, the operation went without a hitch. Still, the challenge was a nice touch.

Now, don't go and think that Jim cheated in the game, because no, he didn't. He thought long and hard about how unsporting it was to install cameras of his own into New Scotland Yard. Then again, if they didn't notice, it wasn't his fault, was it? And he didn't put them _everywhere_. Lestrade's office, though, was definitely a yes. Sherly frequented it regularly, after all. And Jim had never been so happy to have them as when he saw Sherlock call his hard work elegant. It was why he did this, in the first place. Jim was giddy. He wanted champagne. Sherly _understood_. Only he did, of course, but that was rather the point.

“Oh, I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored,” exclaimed Sherlock from the screen. “ ' Course not, baby,” Jim replied, even if he couldn't be heard. Bored again? Well, his next victim was all ready since half a hour ago. He might as well call.

Jim sent pips and photo, and made the young man (men were brought up not to cry at least) call the Yard. He frowned at Donovan announcing the call. Someday that girl would wake up without vocal cords, so she wouldn't be able to scream while Jim played with her internal organs. Not today though. Let Sherly feel the difference between the two of them and the rest of the world.

“It's ok that you've gone to the police, but don't rely on them.” Half warning, half reassurance. Sherlock queried after his identity, surprised by the phone switch. _Just a little display of knowledge, dear. Display of power. Doesn't it turn you on_? Then, finally, time for reminiscing their good times together. “Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me so I stopped him laughing.”

“And you've stolen another voice, I presume,” Sherly said. Jim almost replied, “Of course love, don't be daft,” but something irked him in the sleuth's statement. They were talking, and Sherlock was worrying about his reward (not _the victim,_ surely). Jim chastised him, “This is about you and me.”

And didn't Sherlock have questions. About him, about ground noises...Jim ignored one (it'd be too easy if he answered, right?) and commented gaily about the other, “The sounds of life, Sherlock. But don't worry. I can soon fix them. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours, this time you have eight.” It seemed fair, didn't it? Just a tiny challenge to surpass himself. Sherlock could do it.

Jim hacked the CCTV to follow Sherlock's investigations, and he got a true show. 'Bonding' with Mrs. Monkford was precious. Oh, Sherlock. There was hope for him yet. He could be like Jim if he got rid of the people who weighed him down. Such a performance deserved a special reward.

So, when Sherlock was at Bart's again, he called. “The clue is in the name. Janus cars.” Ridiculously transparent, yes, but Jim would never advice a client against irony. Did Sherly get it, he wondered, or had he deleted all myths? With how bloody they were, hopefully not.

“Why would you give me a clue?” Sherlock queried.

“Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored!” There. Nice confirmation for Sherlock's earlier theory – and it was true that he was eager to get to bigger and better rounds. “We were made for each other, Sherlock,” he revealed. Now he said it. After so long.

“Then talk to me in your own voice.” Sherlock's voice was so soft. Did he long for this, too?

“Patience,” Jim chided, before ending the call. It wouldn't do to rush things and ruin part of the fun. He'd regret it if he did, but he couldn't talk anymore lest Sherly convince him to do whatever he wanted.

Soon after, Sherlock's website read _Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia_. Jim wondered if Sherlock noticed his choice of words when he told them to _fetch_ their reward. Did he think about it? About _them?_ It was only a moment's wistfulness, though. The next second Jim was all, “Yay! Onto the next game!” Though he'd let Sherlock have a night of sleep first. He didn't want his detective to collapse.

Upping the ante, as always, Jim moved on to his third victim. The young man was better than the whiny bitch, and this one, this elderly one (for some reason, the more frail people were, the more others wanted to protect them) was destined to entice people to protect her with her obvious feebleness. Unless they were like Jim. But Sherlock had never been a bully, so...Jim pointed the quality of his reward out. “This one is a bit defective, sorry...she's blind. This is a funny one. I'll give you twelve hours.” First Sherly would need to discover who Connie Prince was. He’d need more time than usual.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock inquired. His curiosity was piqued. That was good. 'For you' would be a good answer. Jim's fall back was true, too. “I like to watch you dance.” So much. There was something artistic, in Sherlock's work. It left him breathless. Gave him Stendhal's syndrome.

Only a little later, at Bart's (of course Jim had eyes and ears everywhere), the DI was being his annoying self – but Sherlock's answers were so wonderful. Though he looked a little anxious when Lestrade asked why Jim did things, and didn't parrot his earlier answer. Instead, he vaguely answered, “Good Samaritan.” Did he want out of the spotlight? Was he afraid that his colleagues would deem him responsible, even if indirectly, for what was happening? He should really relax. It was all Jim's doing after all. He'd take responsibility. But when Lestrade questioned the bomber's methods, Sherlock quipped, “Bad Samaritan.” Jim giggled uncontrollably. He was so reusing that definition.

He'd barely caught his breath when the Inspector asked what they were dealing with. Sherlock's answer was important, and he didn't disappoint. “Something new.” And how evident it was that he liked that ‘something new’. Jim grinned. “Anything for you, Sherly,” he murmured to the empty room.

Later, Jim had slipped in the house opposite 221B, hiding among the debris he hadn't ordered to remove, and enjoyed seeing Sherlock trying to deduce. He especially enjoyed lip reading him (one of Jim's many talents). When he saw Sherlock on the right track, wondering if Moriarty was simply showing off, Jim called him. Just a gentle tease and a casual reminder. “You're enjoying this, aren't you? Joining the dots. Three hours: boom boom.” He'd talk more, but his borrowed voice had started sobbing, and that took all the fun out of it. Frustrated, he ended the call.

Not long (and a bit of Sherlock's buzzing busily around) after, the detective's website read the correct answer. Then things went out of Jim's control. Despite being warned that saying anything but what she was told would make her go boom, the dimwit granny decided to start a running commentary on Jim's performance. Even Sherlock knew instinctively that went against the rules. He tried valiantly but in vain to shut her up.

Well, what could Jim do? The only way to play is entirely seriously, or it's no fun. Jim nodded to Geraldine (his choice today since this round had such a feminine touch) and there was a beautiful explosion, which left him breathless for a moment. Sorry that Sherly couldn't get his reward despite having won, but the death was on the old woman's head, not Jim's or Gerry's. She talked. It was her fault. Her death and the others was due to her inability to stick to the rules. Surely Sherly would figure that out and not blame him.

Later on, Jim was again in the house facing 221B, lip reading Sherlock deduce Jim's business and remark, “Novel,” and getting goosebumps from the pleasure of it. Then, Sherlock uttered, “I think he wants to be distracted,” and Jim almost texted back _Too true; want to distract you too, though._ Which made John visibly upset and jealous, and that was good, because Jim was jealous and upset by the doctor's mere existence. Watson was in a veritable strop, but Sherlock didn't indulge him. He proclaimed that he wouldn't make the mistake to care for the victims (thank God he had his facts straight; Jim had been worried about it lately) and then warned his...companion that he was no hero. So it was that, half to reward him, half to prove him wrong, Jim sent the next message. Two pips and the Thames. Round four was about to begin. He grinned at Sherlock's evident happiness.

Things became seriously cute then. Sherlock was frustrated by Jim's lack of calls. He told the gallery agent that she _should_ be impressed by him even. Jim thought about confirming that she really should as well, but then decided against it since working her into a tizzy would prove counterproductive in the end.

There was also Golem to keep track of. Seb called him with a, “You might want to hear this…” There Golem was, all sorry that he hadn't managed to kill the meddlers in the planetarium and saying that his employer had sent him there in hope that Jim would help. Miss Wenceslas wanted a clean job and Golem swore high and low that he wouldn't fail again. He had a reputation to defend too. He cared about maintaining his status as numero uno killer-for-hire. That was good. The fact that he thought that he could kill Sherlock mid-game, though, that was considerably less good. Let's just say that Golem wouldn't kill anyone anymore. The water boarding first was just to push him toward the other side of suffocation for an hour before mercifully ending him. Or was it seven? Who was counting anyway?

Sherlock must have missed his usual teasing (wasn't it lovely). When he was at the gallery and Jim made his silent call, he was clearly put out and tried to end the game without giving evidence. Without having understood the whys. No tiny details-firework deducing show. As if that could ever be acceptable. Obviously Jim couldn't allow that.

When Sherlock asked for more time, Jim gave him ten seconds because the answer was, after all, staring him in the face. Using the child sent everyone into a panic, like he expected it would, and Sherlock almost cheated but remembered in time what happened when people did. Jim would have been honestly disappointed if he hadn't, but then again, Sherlock was _so_ sexy when he got desperate (of course Jim was in the gallery's CCTV system, enjoying the show). Sherlock won. (Jim had really thought that he was distraught enough that he'd lose this round). Jim felt the usual surge of admiration and love go through him. “Atta, boy!” he felt like shouting.

Next move went to Sherlock, and Jim wondered how long he'd take to realize that. Long enough, it seemed, but finally Sherly asked him on a date. At midnight. At the pool where their respective careers were sealed. If that wasn't romantic, Jim didn't know what was.

He collected his substitute – so useful that John ran all the errands. For an ex-military man he was pitifully easy to kidnap. Just like all his other mouthpieces, he fitted John with the appropriate vest and explosives. When the doctor woke up, Jim talked to him through the earpiece. “Welcome, Johnny boy. You should be honoured. You get to be part of the grand show.”

“What?” John groaned.

“Oh don't be so _slow_. You behave, say what I tell you to when I'll send you out there, and maybe you won't explode in a million pieces. Do I have to explain after so long? _Really_?” Jim growled.

“You're Moriarty.”

“Bingo Johnny boy! And you're mince meat unless you obey. The choice is yours, of course. Still feeling suicidal?”

“When...?”

“Don't play the fool. I know you, Johnny. Now, as I said, behave. Show time will be soon,” Jim cut across the idiot's protests. Of course he's been suicidal in the past. Then again, who hasn't at some point?

Johnny had a double purpose. He was, of course, the most precious reward Jim could find for his game. But he was a test, too. If Jim hadn't renounced his place by Sherlock's side – if he'd been good enough to play him – what would happen?

It turned out that Sherlock wasn't enthusiastic and admiring. He looked shocked and desperately in denial. Jim couldn't keep up the ruse any longer, and showed off what a good dummy Johnny boy could be. Sherlock didn't like that, either. He was grumpy tonight. But he was still so cute, trying to pinpoint Jim when he menaced to stop Watson. “I gave you my number. I thought you might call,” Jim whined.

But Sherly only barked back, “Who are you?”

Finally, it was time to show himself after aching for it so long. Smartly dressed because, hey, it _was_ a first date. “Is that a British Army Browning L91 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” he teased gently.

Sherlock's, “Both,” sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine just like the gun trained on him. Not that he showed it.

He introduced himself then. “Jim Moriarty. Hi!” It figured that Sherlock had deleted Jim from IT, but whatever he claimed, Jim couldn't help but feel fleetingly disappointed.

Then it was Seb's turn to enter the show. From his hideout, of course. Sniping wasn't exactly made for the spotlight. But he didn't let Sherly dwell on that. Seb’s red dots were enough to keep him focused on the important matters, like Jim.

“I'm a specialist, you see...like you.” _Very_ like you, dear. More than you believe.

And Sherlock _understood._ And loved it. Loved Jim. “Consulting criminal. Brilliant!” he breathed.

Jim grinned. His heart soared. “Isn't it? No one gets to me and no one ever will.”

“I did,” Sherlock remarked, cocking the gun. So utterly sexy. Jim could have snogged him right there and then, but it'd have ruined the moment.

“You've come the closest. Now you're in my way.” Lie. Jim's way was _built_ to bring him to Sherly. But it wasn't the time to tell him, yet. Sherlock treated it as the compliment it would be if he was honest. That it still was, partly. Jim admitted to it.

“But the flirting is over.” Well, Sherlock clearly wouldn't consent, not now, so it was useless anyway. “Daddy has had enough now!” It happened very rarely. Mummy was more the law enforcer, but when it did the Holmes boys scrambled to behave. Jim wondered airily if Sherlock felt the echo. And, if he did, did he dismiss it?

“I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all these people, all these little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play,” Jim boasted. “So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off.” How were they supposed to play again if they died here? He smiled. Confession time. “Although I have _loved_ this – this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

Sherlock's reply was very unexpected. And unflattering. “People have died.”

“That's what people DO!” he screamed, because why was everyone with morals so hung up on that little detail? Dying wasn't even that bad. He should know.

“ I _will_ stop you,” Sherly promised, oh-so-softly. Even the determined look was sexy on him. The sentence sounded more like sexual teasing than anything. Maybe Sherlock'd be interested in edging?

“No you won't,” Jim bit back. How were they supposed to play again otherwise? Surely Sherlock would understand in the end?

Then Sherlock started worrying over his new pet and jealousy burned bright and hot in Jim's chest though he behaved like the experienced game master that he was. When the detective tried to buy back's John's life with the missile plans, Jim let his disdain show. Did Sherlock care that much for his replacement? But it did give Jim the occasion for physical contact – he kissed Sherlock's hand, and had to stop himself from lapping at it like old times. But the missile plans? “Boring,” he sing-sang. “I could have gotten them anywhere.” He tossed them away to be hopelessly ruined, disappointed that Sherlock could believe they were the point of the game. _The game_ was the point of the game.

Then things brightened. Jim’s (useless, idiotic) unworthy replacement tried to sacrifice his life to ensure Sherlock's escape, in vain, of course. Seb was there with Alice and a couple of friends and they already had countermeasures in ready. (It’s not that they'd go through with shooting Sherly, but Watson didn't know such).

Jim laughed in sheer delight, identifying for once with his rival and appreciating him. When it looked like he was disparaging the doctor, he was simply talking, and so deep down memory lane that without his snipers' cue he might not have come back from it. “People get so sentimental about their pets.” Didn't he know how much Sherlock had loved him? “They are so touchingly loyal.” Didn't he run back to Sherlock even after death? He loved this part of the game. (Even if it ruined his attire. He'd dressed up for Sherlock, damn!)

Just to make sure his Sherlock knew the rules, Jim questioned him. As expected, the sleuth was under the gross misconception that Jim wanted to kill him. (How could they continue to play then?)

The criminal made a face. “N-no don't be obvious,” he reproached. Then, to ensure his detective wouldn't relax too much and stop playing, he added, “I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway someday. I don't wanna rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special.” Very special. After all, if it happened it would mean his death, too. “No no no no no...if you don't stop prying I'll burn you.” It sounded nice didn't it? He let himself give Sherlock a quick once over. “I'll burn the _heart_ out of you.” Oh, but Jim was jealous. More than anything he wanted to be the only thing in Sherlock's devastated heart.

“I have been reliably informed that I don't have one,” the sleuth said, so very softly. Did this make him sad?

Jim would fix that too. Later. For now, he countered, “But we both know that's not quite true.” He had the best proof about Sherly's heart than any other living soul – except maybe his replacement, distasteful as that was.

Jim smiled at his boy (still, always his boy). Then shrugged. Really nothing else for it. He wanted to stay. He wanted Sherlock to join him. But the detective wouldn't, not today. That much was obvious. Time to say goodbye, for now.

Sherlock threatened him then, and even if he'd had the gun fixed on Jim from the start, it was the first time – after the split second he drew it – that Jim suspected he might be serious about using it. “Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really I would.” He grinned. Weren't they having such a great time together? Why end it? “And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long.” Once Jim was dead, he wouldn’t respond of Seb. Or Alice. But especially Seb. And of course he'd be disappointed. He thought Sherly felt their connection.

“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” He unconcernedly walked away. It should scare him, but Sherlock following him to keep him in his sights sent only pleasure through him. It was a mating dance. If the detective followed him long enough....until they were alone...maybe...but no. Probably not.

“Catch you later,” the sleuth rumbled.

“No you won't!” _You won't want to. It'd end the game._

Freud was laughing at Jim from his place in heaven. Jim hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock – he never wanted to leave Sherlock – their play required it. He was a tiny bit distracted too, his mind divided between sexy thoughts and doubt whether Sherly would have really killed him. He thought about how his angel would have reacted to seeing him again. They were the only excuses for Jim entering the broom cupboard à la Inspector Clouseau. If Seb had noticed – and Jim bet on yes – he was laughing his ass off.

Jim waited a few seconds for them to leave and went back. And they were both still there. And looking like they could kiss any second, too. “Sorry boys, I'm soooo changeable,” the consulting criminal said with excessive cheerfulness to distract Sherly from wondering exactly _why_ he was back. “It is a weakness with me, but to be fair, it is my only weakness.” It certainly wouldn't do to appear more of a clumsy idiot than Jim from IT. The problem was that the only thing he could say that didn't make him appear like a doofus was, “You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.” he wanted to believe that Sherlock could mind-read him, if (hopefully) partially. They were that in tune, surely?

Sherly acknowledged their connection, replying, “Probably my answer has crossed yours.” Star-crossed lovers; telepathic soul mates; that's what they were, and even he knew. Sherlock readied to shoot.

Jim prayed fervently in his mind, _Please, no. Not dying 'cause I'm an idiot – well, dying together with Sherly isn't so bad... but I'd die of shame before the explosion could get to me_.

Jim’s angel heard him - an incoming call on his mobile. He took it, with Sherlock's permission. They were gentlemen, after all. Irene had very juicy info. Normally he'd be very polite towards her; and although internally he was breathless with relief, due to Sherlock's presence he played the big bad wolf, yelling and threatening.

“I hope that whoever is on your end is suitably impressed, Mr. Moriarty, because I'm really not,” Irene said in a clipped voice. Clever girl.

Well, Sherlock was. He was all wound up, adjusting his grip on the gun when Jim approached. Jim stopped next to the jacket. One chance to be killed if Sherlock got startled into shooting. He really couldn't help but tease Fate.

The consultant criminal gave himself a moment to look like he was mulling things over before announcing, “Sorry. Wrong day to die.”

“Oh. Did you get a better offer?” Sherlock queried, acting all casual and as if his nerves weren't about to snap from sheer tension. Points to him for trying at least.

Jim looked at the phone like he'd just remembered its existence – hoping that the sleuth would understand that there couldn't possibly be a better offer than him – and moved to retreat. “You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock.” It was the truest words Jim had ever uttered. He went back – making sure to get the correct door this time – keeping up his threatening act on the phone. On the other end, Irene just chuckled warmly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing

Jim's relationship with Irene wasn't sexual. Which was a pity, actually, because she might have had some neat new tricks to teach him in that department. But Jim didn't submit, and neither did she, and vanilla was neither of theirs style. So really, there was nothing to do.

She came to him first when a client – a client to both of them actually who had some interest in human trafficking - started hinting that Irene should stop working and get in a full time relationship with him. As nice as it might be to add to his collection of scars, she had no intention of doing so. But she knew he was a dangerous man, one who couldn't simply be told, "No, thanks." So she consulted Jim on how to best deal with him.

When she finished outlining her dilemma to Jim, he grinned and sent Sebastian after the man. “Teach him a lesson, kill him, drink with him, blackmail him – do whatever you want to him,” he gave Seb free rein to do what he liked. Seb deserved indulging his own moods sometimes. In the end, the human trafficking ring fell apart because of internal fighting once the man got taken down. Seb did have a one-track mind sometimes.

Jim didn't ask for anything in return from Irene – not yet. Having people owing him favours was always useful. When he asked her to write Sherlock's name on the envelope, she didn't question. But the criminal consultant was sure that she'd taken notice of the unusual name. Irene's job was to take notice of everything – almost like Sherlock's except each used the information differently.

When Jim heard that she attained a royal client, he sent her flowers in congratulation.

"Do I finally need to pay up, Mr. Moriarty?" she sighed.

"Can’t a man be happy for a friend?" he bit back.

"A friend?" she echoed dubiously.

"I like you, Irene, in a very platonic way. You've got a brain, which is more than can be said about 90% of the world – and I'm feeling very charitable today," he explained cheerily.

"Thank you, Mr. Moriarty," she said carefully, guarded.

"Jim, please. And, fine, do you really want to payback your debt now? We'll chat. How does that sound? We'll have coffee like friends do and just...talk." He's never had a friend in this life. Not a true one at least. Yes, there was Seb, who'd be offended by such a statement, but he couldn’t keep up with all of Jim. Then there was Sherly dear, but he didn’t know he was a friend so did that really count?

"Talk about what?" Irene asked, her voice neutral. She would never show her uneasiness, even if she was deeply worried. She knew enough to never admit a weak point to Jim.

"What friends normally talk about -- our work, our crushes, the next concert you're going to, the shows you like. Does that seem acceptable, Irene, my dear?" he countered genially.

"Of course, Jim. We'll have to schedule that coffee."

Irene wasn't blatant about it, but she was scared of Jim (well, she was clever.) A few times spent chatting about classical music and Game of Thrones (Jim's favourite was Petyr Baelish, Irene had a crush on Daenerys) put her at ease, though. Or as much at ease as she could ever be. Jim sometimes complained about people's idiocy. Irene nodded sagely, sharing the feeling, then pointed out that Jim would be out of a job without it. That made Jim laugh. Recounting his last operation, the criminal consultant accidentally praised Sebastian, and Irene felt safe enough by then to mention how invaluable Kate's help was to her.

But this wasn't why he'd made this pact with her, Irene thought. No matter how amiable Jim was, he was invariably after something he could use. And he had specifically mentioned work among the things they'd talked about. The Woman was under no delusions concerning what'd happen to her if she didn't pay Jim back in full for services rendered. She didn't even want to think about what'd happen to her then.

That was why, some weeks later, when a client leaked a secret code for some operation she called Moriarty. He was apparently preoccupied at the time of her phone call because he yelled at her. Imagine that! She thought he'd have been more amiable on the phone. Wouldn’t he find it fun to decode the secret?

And then, of course, there was the subject of Sherlock. Jim couldn't keep his obsession to himself, nor did he want to. And he always took on that star struck expression that Irene found terribly endearing on the face of a criminal overlord when he spoke of Sherlock. Irene started to follow John's blog, too, and never questioned if Sherlock was really all that good even if she wondered about it. She certainly didn't want Jim to blow a fuse.

And frankly, she doubted Jim's nickname for Sherlock. Really? The Virgin? She might be gay, but she was a good judge of the human body's attractiveness and Jim kept sending her snapshots of his favourite sleuth. Sherlock was gorgeous, no contest there. With that body and the drug habit Jim mentioned, in the past Sherlock must have been a living, breathing Dubious Consent waiting to happen. He must have met someone who didn't mind how high he was as long as he could be plied to their desires, or Irene didn't know how people worked – or what they liked – anymore.

Then again, Jim had mentioned big brother and his overprotective instincts. Maybe the overprotective older sibling had shielded Sherlock? Could he really do so all the time? Jim called him The Iceman. Between the nickname and the supposed extensive powers, Mycroft Holmes sounded like a Marvel superhero. Jim laughed until he was breathless when Irene pointed that out.

Well, ‘The Woman’ was almost a Marvel nickname too, and honestly, Jim would have loved to lock Irene and Mycroft in a room together and watch the video feed -- with popcorn. Would Irene be able to make the Iceman melt in a puddle of satisfied goo? The elder Holmes looked like he could use a few de-stressing sessions, and he wouldn't be the first in a powerful position to enjoy her company. But such fantasies were destined to remain a pipe dream. Still, it didn't mean that Jim didn’t nudge them towards realizing his own inner hopes.

When Irene complained that, once again, people were starting to get too interested in her – because one of her clients had blabbered something he shouldn't have during aftercare, this time – Jim shrugged. He couldn't exactly help her. Well, he _could_ help her by getting rid of these people, but the CIA would just send more men. They were stubborn bastards. So, Jim pretended he didn't have a solution, when he had an obvious one, and she did not press the matter.

No, what she needed was political protection. This meant she needed Mycroft, didn't it? Well, she had one surefire way to get his attention. "Blackmail my dear. You have such a wealth of juicy infos that it's a true sin how you don't use them more for your own profit."

"I don't like the idea of blackmailing people myself, Jim. My clients trust me to take care of them," she replied softly.

"Then don't actually blackmail my dear. Just let them know you could blackmail them. They'd be forced to deal with you a way or another," Jim said gaily.

"Or another?" she echoed, obviously displeased.

"If worst comes to worst I'll help you out, Irene. I'd think of something. Pinky promise," he countered with a grin.

She shook her head in mock exasperation, but agreed. Of course she agreed. She was getting quite desperate.

Jim had really thought only Mycroft would get involved. They were aiming at the royal family, after all. He'd momentarily forgotten how very lazy the eldest Holmes could be. Not that Jim ever protested against Sherlock's involvement in anything, but Irene's matter wasn't mysterious enough to be a pretty problem. But since it did give some very sexy snapshots that he immediately shared with Irene – half as a friend, half in warning – Jim wouldn't complain. He didn't kidnap sheet-clad Sherlock but such an act counted as behaving in a sterling way in Jim’s book.

Jim wondered what Sherly would do. As far as tricks went, his weren't particularly sophisticated. Any of them. When Irene came to find the consulting criminal, pointing out her still very many extant troubles, wearing the Belstaff, Jim's feelings were mixed. She admitted to drugging Sherlock – without his consent – and he grimaced. Couldn't she do better?

Honestly, though, the absolute worst thing in her recounting was how illuminating Sherlock found having John's life in danger. He still cared very much about his pet, didn't he? John was ordinary. How had Sherly not grown bored of him yet?

Irene actually smiled talking about them. "They're so cute together," she remarked.

Just for that, instead of free help in the name of friendship, Jim told her that he'd solve her problems in exchange for the solution to that code, which he didn't truly need, but it was better to make her work for things. To begin, he sent her to give the Belstaff back. She didn't deserve a trophy of Sherlock.

Jim let her do whatever she thought best for a while, but soon he noticed how much she was enjoying the game. She was putting too much effort into trying to rile Sherlock up. That was Jim's job. Hence, he proposed, "You know...maybe you should give the CIA what they want."

"Jim...they might affect to want my phone, but they won't be content with just that. They'd want my death too. I know their secrets already," she bit back, not amused in the least!

"Exactly dear." Jim beamed at her.

Finding the right body wasn't that hard. In truth, Jim had it already. On a whim (once when he'd really wanted to fuck Irene into her place but didn't want to ruin this friendship he had with her) he'd researched for her perfect lookalike. Everybody had five. He only needed one. He'd found a preschool teacher in Calais who was just about perfect save for the shape of her lips. He promptly seduced her. Yvonne was definitely sacrifice-able. Irene would be able to safely relocate and she would forget about Sherlock. And Sherlock would delete her. All would be fine. It was a Christmas gift for everyone involved – they'd all be much happier after that.

Still with access to St. Bart's CCTV system, Jim saw Sherlock wonder if there was something wrong with the Holmes brothers. He wanted to reply, "Nothing's wrong. You weren't supposed to care about her." But doing so – maybe by text – would spook Sherly, and that wasn't his aim. Not today. So he did nothing.

But Irene failed to relocate without a hinting the fact. And then, to make matters worse, she came back. Wasn’t that so very cheeky of her? And of all the people in the world, she chose to come out as not-dead to Johnny boy. As if (no, because he'd never) he'd keep a secret like that from his master.

Not that he could, you know, even if he'd wanted to. Since Jim's pretty game, Sherlock had taken to shadowing John when there was danger looming. Not simply accompanying him – that'd be out of character for him and John would have bristled if Sherlock implied he needed backup for running bloody errands. The knowledge that Sherlock cared that much for his replacement irked Jim to no end.

It turned out that Sherly dear was protecting the wrong person, though. The CIA invaded his home while he was stalking his pet. They touched Mrs. Hudson. It was silly of them. Once the _crime in place, please disturb_ sign appeared, Jim was half tempted to do so – disturb them all right. But Sherly didn't need any help. Not really. And seeing him avenge his landlady so thoroughly, ( _mmm...Jim didn't know that he cared for her quite that much. Duly noted.)_ was too funny. Jim had always known that Sherlock was full of untapped (mostly) potential for beautiful cruelty.

But Irene ignored Jim's implicit wishes again. She went to Sherlock’s flat – by herself, without Jim’s permission. At least she’d paid up after that. Code solved. Obviously. Even knowing what Mycroft was up to (clever boy, Mike) didn't diminish Jim's anger at her though. Sherly wasn't hers to play with. He certainly wasn't hers to use like one of her toys. Jim didn't share, not even with friends. She'd met Sherly, and thought she could keep him. Jim would show her.

Thank God Sherlock had ultimately beaten her. “And he had the gall to _lecture_ me, Jim," she seethed, quoting the sleuth's words afterwards. Jim happened to find the detective’s words perfectly true too. So Jim simply smiled and offered to relocate her. This time she had no choice but to accept. That Jim might be planning to have her killed for overstepping her boundaries didn't apparently occur to her.

Of course, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Somehow Sherlock had located and followed Irene, whether to give her an additional lecture or to 'have dinner' in peace, out of John and Mycroft's prying eyes, was anyone's guess. Maybe both. The Taliban group that Jim had delegated to exterminate Irene failed utterly. (Never fear, there'd be one less Taliban cell around soon).

After that, Jim was half tempted to send Seb to Rangoon where a safe house had been prepared for her (even if she wasn't supposed to ever reach the city), to greet her in his own way, but then changed his mind. Let her find someone she cared for. Then let him tear her away from that someone; rip her from the arms of The Woman, and kill her. The revenge would be more fitting. Jim could be patient. Besides, in the meantime, he could still Skype with her about work and music and Game of Thrones. In the end, seeing Mycroft work to spare Sherlock's nonexistent feelings and knowing the truth was funny. The laugh was worth keeping Irene alive a bit longer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All hail to Ennui Enigma for making sure this makes sense.

 

 

 

Foiling thanks to Irene (thanks to Sherlock) Mycroft's little Coventry plan irritated the eldest Holmes. This was just fine. Jim wanted to get at him anyway. To pique his interest, the criminal consultant started getting involved more heavily with a few terrorist groups. He liked creating havoc so it wasn't a chore, even if he despised them for needing his help. He made sure that Mycroft knew of the flourishing of this branch of his activity.

 

How else was he supposed to have a chat with big brother? The elder Holmes believed that Sherlock needed no help against him, after all, or he would already have intervened. (Mmmm... how would it have gone, his great game, if Myc had added his own snipers to the equation? Even more fun, surely.)

But Mycroft hadn't, at the time. So here Jim was, crossing his path when he could and baiting him and doing his damnedest best – short of going to his home with a bouquet of roses – to get Myc (Jim loved how much the man hated his nickname) to notice him.

 

It took more than the consultant criminal expected, but it finally worked. Mycroft didn't pick him up in a limousine. (Jim would have climbed into it without a fuss, didn't he know?). Moriarty wasn't sure if he should be miffed, amused or honoured by the deployment of power used to capture him. In the end, he managed to be all three at the same time.

 

He had to fight with Seb to persuade him to run away instead of trying to outshoot the thirty-or-so highly trained operatives. "I'm not letting anyone take you!" Sebastian had declared hotly.

"You run away now, tiger. That's not prey for you," Jim had ordered sharply.

"But Jimmy!" Seb almost whined.

"Don't you 'Jimmy' me! It's all in the plan. Do you understand my plans? No, you don't have enough brain cells. So you obey. Shoo, Seb. They don't need to catch you too," the consultant criminal barked – though he let a bit of his fondness for the other man seep in at the end.

"I don't like your plan," Moran had grumbled.

"Any further insubordination and I'll have you killed, Sebastian. You're of no use to me if you won't follow orders, Colonel," Jim had threatened. And he would have gone through with it. He would have. Honest. (Probably.)

"How long?" Seb had asked quietly.

"What? Don't dillydally!" Moriarty had queried, utterly irritated now.

"Before I storm in to free you. Obviously," the sniper had replied cheekily.

"A month, but you won't need to, tiger," Jim had assured.

Seb had snorted incredulously. They were just going to let him go, were they? A quick, sudden, frustrated kiss and Sebastian had finally obeyed, leaving Jim alone to wait for the men coming.

 

The fact that he wanted to go didn't mean that he had to make things easy for them. He'd created a pretty maze with a few well-placed booby traps as a training exercise for these people. If they couldn't solve it he wouldn't go. No subpar operative for him. It was a question of self-respect. And he needed to make sure to delay them too. Seb needed enough time to run. Jim knew the sniper would be a stubborn idiot about this.

 

"I apologize, I should have prepared cookies -" he said when they finally arrived for him. (Wasn't that the customary reward for a job well done?). But before he could deliver the rest of the line (let's agree I'll owe you some fine?") He was subdued – manhandled – and bristled, "I’m coming, I’m coming, there's no need to get rough...you've been invited after all!"

When he was brought before his interrogator, he pointed out, "Let it be said that I have every intention to be a good citizen and cooperate. I'll chat until you get tired, but only with Mycroft Holmes. So get him anytime you want info."

The man snorted, clearly thinking that he had ways – lots of them – to make Jim spout everything without involving (disappointingly) his superior. Anyone had a right to his own delusion. They could torture him all they wanted, but he had a prize in sight and couldn't give up.

Electrical shocks? "Interesting foreplay but when do we move to sex?"

Water boarding? "Can I ...pant, pant... have wine...pant...too? I'm legal."

Plain old beating? "Boooring. Can't you be more creative? I'd give you tips but you'd have to pay me for the consultation."

Starving? "No no, I want Mycroft, I'm not Mycroft, of course that doesn't work on me!"

Sleep deprivation? That was just more time to contemplate his cell. He'd smuggled in a tiny diamond (you don't want to know how) and decorated the walls. _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock._ Not that he risked forgetting, but he knew he'd spend a lot of time staring at these walls. Might as well have something beautiful to look at. He was mildly worried that they'd make him switch cells – they'd taken the diamond, of course – and he'd have to decorate the next one with his own blood. But they'd judged it too much of a hassle.

 

They kept torturing him; Jim kept taunting them. "You really don't want to know what I have to say? It'd save lives!" And trying without much success to determine how many days were left until Seb stormed their enclave in an attempted rescue.  Jim didn't doubt for a moment that his tiger would come eventually, just as he'd promised.

 

His torturers quickly went from considering him yet another unpleasant job (pleasant to the redheaded one if he was good judge of men, which he was) to hating and despising him. They couldn't fathom how he remained unbroken. Worse though, they couldn't put a stop to Jim's snark. But since the feeling was mutual, Jim certainly didn't concern himself over his tormentors' emotions. As professionals, they should have been more creative, honestly.

 

In the end, they gave into his demands. They called Mycroft Holmes, despite interrogation not being the Iceman's strong suit. Like Jim, the elder Holmes kept to activities that wouldn't damage his impeccable clothes. Unlike Jim, he wasn't particularly eager for a close-up on the torturing process.

 

Jim was alone, securely bound to his chair in a room empty save for another chair when he saw Mycroft enter. The consultant criminal beamed. "Mycroft! Long time no see! I'd shake your hand if I could. But really, you don't need to have me chained. I'd never attack you. I just want to chat a bit."

 

Now perhaps 'long time no see' wasn't the right thing to say, as they'd never met in this body, but his brain was muddled from lack of sleep, and hopefully Mycroft would surmise that Jim meant he'd seen the politician when stalking Sherly.

 

Mycroft sat down, remarking coldly, "I don't shake hands with psychotic criminals anyway."

"Now, now, Holmes, your mum brought you up politer than that," Jim chided with a pout.

"Don't mention my mother," Mycroft hissed sharply.

"Fine, I won't. Don't get your knickers in a twist," the prisoner replied, smirking.

"You said you’d cooperate," the elder Holmes pointed out.

"And I will. God, Mycroft, I want to. Information for information. I will tell you about many terrorist groups and their – our, really – projects...and you'll tell me everything that comes to mind about your little brother, age 0-5 and 13-20. Deal?" Moriarty smiled broadly.

"That's a very specific request." Oh. He'd surprised Mycroft. Wasn't that precious?

"These are the gaps in my knowledge. You fill mine. I fill yours. Fair isn't it?" Jim asked, wishing he could shrug.

"You are lying. You don't have info on my brother's elementary and middle school years. There’s no way that you would have been able to buy info from people about him as a child," the elder Holmes said, more to reassure himself than anything.

"But I knew your little brother better than even you, Myc, at one point in his life. Test me," Moriarty tempted.

 

"What was the name of Sherlock’s boyhood pet?" Mycroft took the bait.

 

Jim couldn't help it. He almost choked on his own manic giggles. "Redbeard." He let his tongue caress his old name. "His name was Redbeard – Irish setter. And now, you. Your turn to share, Mycroft. Or I will believe that you don't want certain info, after all. Even if it could save millions of lives."

 

Mycroft shrugged. "Fine." He'd just have Moriarty killed when he wasn't of any use anymore. He might as well give in. Just this once.

"No you won't," Jim interjected.

"What? Of course I'm going to. I was just deciding what to say," the elder Holmes objected.

"Yes you will – talk to me, but no you won't – kill me in the end. I have a trump card, you see," Jim explained grinning.

"Let's see this card of yours, then," Mycroft prompted impatiently.

"Oh no. Not until the time is right. You're familiar with playing cards, after all. No, you tell me what I want to know in exchange for what you need to know – and all this despite the niggling fear that my card could just be legitimately that good and you'll be forced to let me go in the end – with all that new information to play with. You will do that, Mycroft. Because you're a good kid who's never shirked his duty, and you won't start to now," Jim proclaimed smugly.

 

He might have chosen to reveal his trump care now and reassured Myc about what he was going to do, but what could he say, he loved making the man uncomfortable. The git deserved it for agreeing so late to Jim's plan.

 

He kept his part of the agreement though. He revealed some of his clients – plan after plan after more evil terrorist plan. But what marvellous things he got in exchange. Baby Sherlock would always stop crying when Mycroft cradled him. Fifteen year old Sherlock's experiments destroyed the first oven of a long series (a long series of experimentally exploded ovens, that is). Finding Sherlock on his eighteenth birthday prey to nicotine intoxication (it was never clear exactly how much he'd smoked). And many, many more tiny treasures. At least now Jim knew what he should have been there for. All that he had missed. It was worth everything to get this.

Then, of course, came the day when he'd revealed everything he knew, and the tales trickled to a stop. "I suppose now is the moment for me to persuade you that killing me is only a waste of a good bullet. How open minded are you Mycroft?" Jim stated with a grin.

"I'm not easy to dupe as you well know," the elder Holmes replied tightly.

"Of course I know. Well, here goes nothing. You won't kill me because I’ve never meant serious harm to Sherlock, and we both know that even if I gave you an excuse to catch me protecting Sherlock is the reason I'm here."

"Those snipers of yours would beg to differ, Moriarty," Mycroft objected politely.

Jim laughed. "Seb? Christ, no. That was for show. To spice up the play. If I tell you a secret, promise not to tattle it to Sherlock? I don't want to have my grand reveal ruined."

"I will make no promises to the likes of you," the elder Holmes sneered.

"Fine. But I'll get angry if you ruin my surprise, Myc. Do you know why I'll never really hurt Sherly? Why I love playing with him above anything else in the world? I'm Redbeard. Well, his timey wimey reincarnation," Jim announced.

"That you are completely insane is hardly a grand reveal," Mycroft replied, nonplussed.

"God, but try me at least! Ask away! So sorry about throwing up upon you on your thirteenth birthday, by the way, but you shouldn't have fed me cake."

"I'll play your game. When Sherlock got lost – he was seven, we were on holiday – and the dog led me back to him what was he doing?" Mycroft queried, challenging. That was a secret between Sherlock and he that he'd bring to his grave. Sherlock had been so ashamed and upset after his brother's explanation, that Mycroft just had to promise him he wouldn't tell a soul.

Jim smiled dreamily. "He'd found dragon footprints and was searching for the beast's lair. I still don't know what he meant to do once he found it. They were dinosaurs', of course. After that, he fixated solely on pirates – they were real, you see."

It made no sense. How could Moriarty know? Their parents bloody knew but the edited version of it. The thought was clear on Mycroft's ashen face.

"So? Have I proved myself? Can I go home? I'm not about to hurt Sherlock, you know. I just want to play with him. I've always wanted to play with him. Naturally, now that he's grown up, it involves dead bodies. But not his. Never his. I'd rather kill myself, I swear." Jim uttered fervently.

Seb's face, when he went home a day later, was priceless.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Thank Ennui Enigma for bearing with me through this. God knows it wouldn't make sense without her.

When he heard about the Turner – _Reichenbach falls_ – Jim wanted it. After all, Reichenbach translated to Richard Brook – his old stage name – and the thing would have suited his own sitting room. He had to give up on that project because Sherlock got involved, but it wasn't a big sacrifice. It was just one more unplanned game, delightful in its own right.

Seeing Sherlock turned into a hero was a nice bonus. Finally, there was someone beside him that understood the sleuth's greatness. The media had taken a shine to Sherlock, who seemed to get bigger cases in turn (Jim helped with that, naturally, though not always) and get even more media coverage as a result.

Jim collected in a scarf-blue folder all the articles he could find (and wrote enraged letters to the papers about their spelling errors), saved every clip of video feed, and, of course, continued his full surveillance on the detective. Wouldn't want to lose the good habits.

He laughed at his friend's frowning face under that deerstalker. (Why had Sherlock picked it if he hated it so much? Though it was fitting – a _hunting_ hat.) Jim wondered, though, why the tabloids chose the Victorian slang. Confirmed bachelor? What was wrong with writing 'helluva gay'?

John objected to the term, of course, and the fact that, to Jim's extensive knowledge, they weren't actually fucking – yet, just continually making bedroom eyes at each other. Someone would have to intervene before they started and Sherly decided he wanted to please John – ugh!

Then came the day that Watson asked Sherly to take a _little_ case. Shirk the media. Naturally Jim had to make sure that Sherlock didn't start giving into his pet. No, the situation was so bad that the only acceptable plan of action was the one that would eventually end in definitely separating his Sherlock from John Watson, MD. Good thing that he knew just how to do this.

It was easy. The right, 'idiotic tourist' attire, down to the clumsy, "Forgot I had a phone," routine, and here Jim was in the Tower of London, _The thieving magpie_ blaring in his ears. Rossini's music was so powerful – inspirational, really.

The plan went without a hitch. Work of art, really. And if Jim danced during its realization...well, Sherly loved ballet. He purposely turned the 'o' of 'Get Sherlock' (now try to stay out of the news) into a smiley like the one in their sitting room. (Wasn’t that was a nice touch?) "I know you...and I'm happy about it." It said both.

The right app – like he'd told his many, many clients – and you could do anything. Open the vault of the Bank of England. Free everyone in Pentonville prison. Take ermine, crown and all the other emblems of power. Of course, Jim didn't take them away. This was not to be a game of cat and mouse. This was a show of sheer power. And he so hoped that his photo in a crown would be shown as exhibit A. He texted Sherlock. _Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x_. Who would arrive first, he wondered? Sherly or the police?

When the police arrived, he greeted them with, "No rush." He was quite comfortable where he was. And Sherlock wasn't here yet. Why wasn't he here? Didn't he like playing with Jim anymore? The mere thought was heresy. Oh well. He'd see him soon. Jim was shoved into the police car still smiling.

Of course, Sebastian didn't like the plan. Once again, Jim was guest of England's finest. But after his last sojourn, this seemed a vacation resort. Hell, he even had access to all the newspapers. The idiot at the Guardian who wrote Sherlock was ‘part of his trail’ instead of ‘trial’ was so going to hear from him! Didn't anyone have proofreaders? And there was more. Even among men of the law, people were baffled by the sheer magnitude of what he'd attempted, and offered him a sort of uncomfortable respect.

At the actual trial, the waiting for Sherlock was almost unbearable. Soooo bored! He couldn't scream so instead he harassed the policewoman. It was petty, even Jim knew, but one had to make do sometimes. He could at least smile internally knowing that she took great comfort in imagining him jailed and raped thrice daily, while noting of the sort was going to happen.

But then , oh, finally Sherly was there, so beautiful that it stole Jim's breath away. And he was entertaining as expected too. Jim's lawyer should have objected to such a question if he wasn't under strict orders to do nothing. Sherly's description was so flattering. Not only because spiders were such fascinating and useful creatures but because he'd used the verb ‘dance’ a propos of the threads, and conscious or unconscious, the quote was a very welcome act of homage. Jim nodded his approval.

But then, oh, then it was fantastic. Answering to the dull and inopportune questions, Sherlock declared, "I felt we had a special something." How much of that was sarcasm? How much fact? Had Sherlock started to realize it too? Had Mycroft tattled after all? Jim couldn't entirely keep the shocked enthusiasm off his face. They had a special connection and Sherlock had been the one to say it.

After that, of course, it was all sheer fun. With Sherlock demonstrating that in five minutes he could understand anyone amply by deducing the jury and being, in the end, brought away for being a smartarse (though Jim supposed the technical term they'd write down wasn't that).

The trial had a pause while everyone tried to compose themselves after the exit of tornado Sherlock. Their special connection held because they brought Jim to the cell adjoining Sherly's.

"I do have many talents, but I'd probably mess up your boiler, sadly," Jim admitted, mentioning the sleuth's earlier words. "But I know a couple of snipers that would make a wondrous job of it. I could send one to 221B if you need."

"Thank you but I'll pass," the detective replied.

"Are you sure? For you, any of my services would be free of charge. As you said, we indeed have a special something between us, and I aim to please," the consultant criminal insisted.

"I'll keep it in mind for when I finally want my brother dead," Sherlock drawled.

"Please do. Though I wouldn't mull it over sooo very long. You might find yourself short on time, sweetie." Jim smiled even if Sherlock couldn't see him. "On a different note, just a splash of milk for me, no sugar or lemon."

"Where?" The sleuth sounded baffled.

"In my tea, you silly," Jim teased.

"Do you expect that we'll have a tea party soon, Jim?" Sherlock sounded wary.

"One can dream – can't he? - that we'll have a friendly meeting someday. Really, Sherlock. We should have been best friends."

"Quite hard with you always on the brink of a murdering spree," the detective bit back, sarcastic.

"Someday you'll understand, my dear. I promise!" Jim assured.

The rest of the trial, even if (because) it went exactly like expected, was again boring. The best part of it was making sure the pet was still following it, even with his master banned from court, and sending him a shrug at his own lawyer's inaction. "See? I'm not even defending myself, and don't care," it said. ("I don't need to. I have Seb to do it," was implied – not that the pet would understand that.)

When he was acquitted – of course he was, people weren't that brave or self-sacrificing – he went straight to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't disappoint. When he opened the door to the flat at 221B (after picking the front door) Sherlock welcomed him with tea. He made himself vulnerable by turning his back too. He trusted Jim not to kill him – the consultant criminal was here for playing and they both knew that. Sherlock even offered him a serenata. Bach. Quite proper since Johann Sebastian couldn't stand unfinished melodies (and what else was this?). Jim mentioned it, and he was – they both were – oh so very polite, beyond the small talk. Discussing music. Dancing around the subject uppermost in both their minds.

At last Jim touched it. "But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."

Sherlock faked not even knowing about what, but Jim didn't fall for his false ignorance. "With me...back on the streets. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." He smiled gazing, a bit adoringly, in Sherlock's eyes, then grinned.

Sherlock, pretending (surely pretending) to be uncomfortable, busied himself with his own cup.

"You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring," Jim declared. All gentle teasing, of course. Sherlock could never be boring. But they were alike, and Sherlock wouldn't have become a consulting detective without the consultant criminal's earlier intervention. What would he be?

Jim shook his head in fake disappointment at the sleuth's goodness. "You're on the side of the angels." Oooops. He shouldn't have let Seb get him into Supernatural. That's where these metaphors came from. Would Sherlock frown at that? He didn't, luckily.

Then they were talking about Jim's exoneration from prison, stating the obvious, and Jim explained his philosophy. "...And every person has their pressure point; someone they want to protect from harm. Easy peasy."

Sherlock asked how Jim planned to burn him. Jim was enthusiastic, discussing their 'final problem' (the one who'd rid him of competition for Sherlock – hopefully). "I did tell you," just did, in fact, "but did you listen?" he queried.

After that, they most naturally started talking about Jim's other plans – what he's done the Old Bailey show for (beside seeing Sherly again, obviously). Advertisement. Because, "In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king, and honey, you should see me in a crown." (He was still put off over the lack of exhibit A.)

"Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex," Jim remarked smugly. Not for the money he could make from his clients – who cares about money. Opening vaults was just a game.

"I just like to watch them competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!'" Just like he did with Seb and Alice, but on a way larger scale.

"Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know. You've got John." (And Jim was still not over it.)

"I should get myself a live in one. It'd be so funny." If he shared a flat with Sebastian, could Seb be a pretty housewife for him? Jim could dress him up. Mmmmm...

But Sherlock was all hung up on the why (not money, of course – not even power) and Jim owed him an answer. "I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The final problem." Which Sherlock won't understand, not even after it's come to pass, but that was fine as long as the detective played along.

"It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock; the Fall." He'd made Sherlock the consulting detective; he could unmake him, if he wanted.

"But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination." He _hoped_ the change would be permanent at least – otherwise he'd have to take additional measures. And the kid – the sleuth would always be a kid to him, if partially – complained about not liking riddles. Didn't Jim know? But he couldn't give him the solution to that. Not yet.

"Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ...owe...you." That had a nice ring, hadn't it? Considering he's had to come up with it on the spot because he was a clumsy idiot so agitated by his intended one's presence that he messed up carving the bloody I (heart) U that he’d planned. It had such a nice ring that he decided to leave it as his parting shot, along with the mangled apple.

Days later, Moriarty was going to raze the Daily Express. He was no'Jimbo'. Seb suggested taking the journalist responsible to play with instead. What a lovely idea. And, after all, he needed a distraction for a while: he had to give Sherlock a little time to properly anticipate their final problem, make him work out the riddle. He himself had to find the right journalist to work with (one without spelling problems!).

In the end, Sherlock's reprieve (in which he, sagely, still didn't bed his pet) lasted two months. After that, Baker Street was full of killers obliged not to act (none of them would take kindly to a competitor taking the initiative), no matter how eager they were (wasn't it delicious?), Kitty Riley got her scoop and Jim was ready to send around his thieving magpie sealed envelopes. It was time for the grand show. This was going to be such a grim(m) tale. Jim chuckled to himself. If he was lucky he'd have won this round. He almost did the last time he used a child too.

Jim enjoyed seeing the case brought to Sherlock – and he relished that bitch Donovan's undying animosity. She would do nicely, very soon. He was betting on her to rush to serve his aims, but naturally, someone else could beat her to such. Jim was not used to losing though, and not only because he rigged circumstances in his favour.

Jim had his spy cameras all over St. Aldate. His men sent to install them thought he needed data to plan the kidnapping. Jim didn't explain that was at best a secondary bonus. No, the cameras were for observing Sherlock at work. Jim chuckled seeing him bully the school employee despite her having a shock blanket already. Absolutely delightful. The detective wanted this solved 'quickly'. Oh, but he really cared for kids, uh?

Jim was smug when Sherlock found the book he'd planted (just in case he needed help getting this – he might have deleted the tales). He loved seeing him find the other clues. They were new to the consulting criminal, of course, but he didn't doubt there would be. He didn't pick the ambassador's children only because they were posh children whose daddy would hire the best detective – that being Sherly, of course. He picked them because he'd ascertained that they were clever little things – at least the little boy was – who would try something and make the game interesting. Linseed oil? Clever! Jim hoped the kid wasn't all that hungry – it'd be a pity otherwise.

And here Sherlock was, playing with footprints and – by his own admission – "starting to have fun." (See? Wasn't Jim perfect at engineering these games for him?) And Watson dared to scold him for smiling. The detective was so beautiful when he smiled. Oh, no matter. The blogger wouldn't last long now.

Next stop was, of course, Bart's. The sleuth bullied Molly out of a date – selfish, irresistible boy – and declared Jim (whose involvement John didn't even suspect. Really?!) had been, "a bit naughty." Now, if Sherlock wanted, Jim wouldn't mind being a bit naughty close and personal with him, maybe involving Molly too if Sherly wanted (NOT John). They'd never have that, would they?

Poor Molls though, distancing herself from her old flame. "I ended it." Because Jim had no further use for her, or she would never have. When Sherlock suggested Molly not to date, "for the sake of law and order," Jim shook his head in mock despair. The sleuth couldn't really think that he acted out because Molls dumped him, did he? The detective certainly knew that it was all for him. Always for him. He couldn't not know.

Jim admired Sherlock’s intense sleuthing and shivered with pleasure when Sherly absent-mindedly, so very softly, murmured that parting shot. His boy was still fixated on their tea party. It evened out the burst of irritation he'd felt at the sleuth calling Molly, "John." John was useless, not helpful. The earlier Sherlock's subconscious accepted this fact, the better it would be for everyone. Case in point: Watson hadn't mentioned the magpie envelope with breadcrumbs that Jim sent at 221B for ages. And when he did, he queried, "What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

Sherlock explained, "The sort that likes to boast; the sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me: All fairytales need a good old-fashioned villain." Jim chuckled in disappointment. He'd said, "Every fairytale." oh well. At least Sherly had got the punch line.

Jim had to admit that Sherly had trained his inspector well. Bored watching the analyses, and to spice things up, one hour before he'd sent Scotland Yard a fax. _Hurry up they're dying!_ Lestrade hadn't bothered the sleuth until he decided to go to them. The DI knew that the detective would be doing his best already.

Sherlock was finally ready to sweep in and save the kids, so Jim texted to his man at Addleston to flee. The man left the kids to their own devices, mostly, but had to check that they wouldn't wander away. Jim had gone through a true casting for that role. He was quite satisfied with the result. The curls were just right, and the general effect would undoubtedly give the expected results.

Through the cameras he'd placed in the abandoned factory, he observed Sherlock figuring it out. And remarking, "Neat," with a grin – much to his pet's dismay. Jim clapped his hands in delight. The detective, once again, liked his tricks. He wasn't so sure that Sherly would like his subsequent plans, but one day he'd understand.

Next stop, Scotland Yard, where his next trick would come to fruition. Wasn't Sherlock too cute, arranging his coat collar down in order not to be himself? Pity that wouldn't be enough. A moment later, Jim was reminding him through the windows of the nearing building: I O U. The letters were really intended to mean ‘I (heart) you’, but if he did it properly Sherlock wouldn't quite understand that yet.

And then, here Jim was, to pick his date up, and he didn't even have to suffer through the pet's presence – he "might talk," out of turn and Sherlock was the one to leave him on the pavement. Jim grinned broadly.

The detective hated it when Jim turned the TV screen on – lots of things to think through – but he abruptly stopped protesting when Jim aired his tape. Oh, but it had brought back the memories when he created it. He'd painted the white fluffy, and the grey stormy clouds himself – together with Sebastian – and then the paint war had sorta happened, and then...well, that was not a story for children.

Sir Boast-a-lot's tale, on the other hand, did involve children. The bravest and cleverest knight. He might not be a pirate as Sherly would have preferred, but he'd be forgiven for that. He was giving Sherly a warning. It should be happening right about now, after all. The 'other knights' at the Yard wondering if sir Boast-a-lot's stories were true. Someone bringing up the matter to Lestrade, or even a superior to the DI. "And then even the King began to wonder..." The child had surely screamed in terror. It made people wonder, right?

"But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problem. No, that wasn't the _final_ problem." Just in case Sherlock missed the point. He didn't have to lose only his reputation – he didn't even care about it, so it would be no hardship. No, he had to lose _John Watson_ , one way or another, and Jim would bloody well see that it was done. "The end," he sing sang. Jim saw Sherlock baring his teeth in a silent growl, and like his taped-self, grinned.

And then, Sherlock was screaming to stop the cab, which Jim did. Kidnapping him was always tempting, but not on today's to-do list. "What was that?" Sherlock yelled, running to open Jim's door. Well, now that couldn't happen. No physical confrontation now. Jim was wearing the same cap that Hope wore, and Sherly should have noticed if he wasn't so distracted. He reminded the distracted detective, "No charge," and sped away, leaving Sherlock to other cabs and his murderous guardian angels.

A little later, and Sherlock was figuring it out – and then on a cameras' hunt. The fact that he didn't notice when they were installed was rather shameful. But then, perhaps, he had noticed and surmised Mycroft was acting out again.

Jim was glad that Lestrade interrupted him before he could get the last camera. He'd have missed out if he didn't have that inside shot of Sherly being all snippy but saying (praying internally, Jim was sure), "You're going to have to be strong to resist." Sherlock hoped his friends wouldn't give into the consultant criminal's little plot. Well, how could they? Sherlock recognized it. "You can’t kill an idea, can you?" The sleuth was getting it. "He wants to destroy me inch by inch. It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play."

Jim laughed to himself, “Oh, but Sherly, you don't have a choice! You must, and you will, play along.”

And then the pet, John, started worrying about his master's reputation and letting the word 'fraud' slip carelessly from his lips. It made Sherlock anxious. Upset. Made him feel like his one...friend...was doubting him too. "Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can't you see what is going on?" he growled, furious. John reassured him with a stupid quip. Pity. Jim had hoped for a moment that would cause the rift to fester where he'd eventually be allowed to kill Watson.

Jim continued playing with relish. His net was closing around his Sherly. He'd sent the burnt ginger man (it was amusing to create it – had lot of fun with Alice while cooking) to tease his Sherly – though if the old bat had delivered it right away, the sleuth would have had more time to taste fear. But at least he now he surely knew; that the pet had forgotten was, honestly, downright insulting to him.

Then, of course, came the arrest and the daring escape. It was beautiful! Sherlock seemed to know instinctually that Jim didn’t want Old Bailey – the Reverse. He didn’t accept his fate rolling over helplessly either. The sleuth might not even notice the IOU with dark angel wings in Baker Street, preoccupied as he was, but Sherlock wasn't the only one who knew graffiti artists. Jim found it a nice touch.

Now Sherlock would know what it was like to be prey instead of hunter. Being hunter was heady in its own right, Jim could attest to that. In order to reverse his role and escape his sudden role reversal as prey, the sleuth would need to set things straight. And since the police was likely to be unreasonable, the place he'd need to go to begin clearing his name would be...Kitty's.

It wasn't a chore like usual getting involved with Kitty. She was hungry – for recognition; fame; money – and Jim appreciated that in people, especially people he had to use. He'd started as her big scoop, and then she'd pitied him – wicked Holmes' little toy – and from that they'd smoothly transitioned to admiration and seduction. Jim was a great actor. He'd moved in with her, claiming this or that rehearsal or show, he had more than enough time away to follow his plans – and now he went back to her because Sherlock was coming.

The detective had already arrived there at Kitty’s place with his new pet even. Jim wanted a fucking BAFTA for his panicked reaction upon meeting. "You said that they wouldn't find me here. You said that I'd be safe here," he whimpered, voice trembling. John was enraged, of course. Sherlock was...looking. Waiting to see where this would go.

When Jim begged the doctor not to hurt him, he was more sincere than he would have wanted to be. God, but he missed Seb now – though the man was close, he wasn't here – John looked murderous. Kitty explained – boasted about her scoop, indeed – and it didn't matter if no one currently present believed her. If Jim could sow even a sliver of doubt, Sherlock hopefully wouldn't complain when it was time to get rid of his flatmate. If he had to whine and whimper and tremble and apologize compulsively to the man that he hated with a passion, Jim would do it.

The best part, as with all lies, was the kernel of truth in them. Richard Brook, actor. Kids' TV. That was all true. Jim slipped a triumphant smile at his detective while the pet read his CV. The sleuth offered him a very non-amused one back, barely moving his lips. And then John was demanding explanations from his friend, "because I'm not getting this." (What else was new?)

Sherlock’s reaction in all the drama was like that of a stone, except for that tiny reaction Jim got out of him initially. Until Jim prodded, "Just tell him. It's all coming out now. It's all over. Just tell them. Just tell him. Tell him!" It was a fine suggestion, actually. Why couldn't the sleuth go along with his script? Instead he bared his teeth in a silent growl and marched towards the consulting criminal. When Jim pleaded not to be hurt, once again, opting for a tactical retreat (he missed Seb so much now; Kitty would defend him but she was all talk), his terror was only half feigned.

Sherlock was on the brink of snapping, yelling at him to, "Stop it now!" and John – the bloody moral compass – had a grudge towards Jim the size of fucking Eurasia and would probably, like Alice, offer interesting suggestions about how to best hurt him.

Both of his prey were hunting him down, the closer to actually playing tag he's ever come, and even while scared he found himself high on the feeling. He grinned at Sherlock before closing himself into the bathroom. He didn't linger – better not to be caught in an enclosed space. Out of the window he went, running back to Seb who had accompanied him there (and run the errands for him – there was no way that Jim was shopping for Kitty bloody Riley). Sherly, sadly, didn't pursue him further. Oh well. They'd see each other soon.

Next move, though, went to the detective. He'd need to arrange things for his great stage exit, and rushing him just wouldn't do. These things needed careful consideration. Planning. When he finally received the message, _Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH P.S. Got something of yours you might want back_ , Jim firstly grinned, then frowned. Something of his? He'd certainly not kidnapped Alice, or Seb, his other people were useless pawns (Jim wouldn't want them back if they got caught), so what was he talking about? Did he mean the code? Had he believed that? Really?! Oh, boy.

Jim let him stew a bit. Wound him up further. In the meantime, he positioned his players. One for the workaholic DI (Lestrade). His best workman sniper for the landlady (these old houses always had something that needed fixing, and Jim wasn't kidding when he said that he knew killers that could repair your boilers or pretty much everything else). One waiting to tail Doctor Watson. Alice, as the intended public of his show, would send the words 'Holy Friday' that would stop everyone else once the spectacle (of course it was a mere display, there was a reason he didn't intend to threaten Molly – Sherly would need her for his trick) had happened. She wasn't making sure nobody disturbed them – as she'd surmised at first. She was watching it from a vantage point to Bart's and sending the word that would mean the killers had to stand down and not go through with their assassination once Sherlock was 'dead'. She'd have wanted to do more, but this was what he required from her.

Seb was in stand-by to help him later – and gosh, how many times his Colonel checked and rechecked and repeated his instructions to Jim. He didn't like this plan much. He'd rather be a sniper – but Jim wasn't going to offer him to Myc.

Lastly, there was the call. The phone call that would drive Watson away but not Sherlock – he'd obviously see through it. If Jim was lucky, John and Sherlock might even have a full-blown row. At the very least, some sharp words would fly. And, one way or the other, these would be the last words they’d exchange before one of them died. Somehow. Let the doctor think he'd pushed Sherlock into it – if he survived.

With his phone hooked into the hospital's CCTV, Jim smirked. "You machine"?! Oooh...nice. And the reminder, "Friends protect people," was just what Sherly needed to hear right now. A reminder. If John was working for the consultant criminal, he couldn't have done better.

_I'm waiting...JM_ , he texted. Now the good part. He was fiddling with the ringtones on his phone when Sherlock arrived. "Ah...here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem. Staying alive! It's so boring isn't it? It's just...staying." He really meant that, and he was sure Sherly understood.

"All my life, I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you," Jim continued. In a sense, that was true too. He had the sleuth exactly where he wanted him, every move predicted.

"And you know what? In the end, it was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them. "He injected disappointment in his voice, and rubbed his face to hide the lie. Sherlock could never be ordinary, not even if he tried, though he'd become weak now that he cared (for people who weren't Jim; the consultant criminal frowned internally). And Jim would never play with anyone else.

"Ah well..." He circled the sleuth like a shark around his prey. Tempted to tackle him, but the show didn't require it. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?" he queried.

"Richard Brook," the sleuth answered flatly.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do." It happened involuntarily, but it was amusing nonetheless.

"Of course," Sherlock agreed.

"Attaboy," Jim praised – as he himself had been praised a lifetime ago.

"Richard Brook in German is Reichenbach. The case that made my name," Sherly explained, showing off his linguistic prowess.

"Just trying to have some fun," the criminal consultant replied. Let the detective think that he was even more the center of all his nemesis' choices.

And Sherly was tapping his fingers insistently... "Good. You got that too," Jim remarked. Sherlock explained how the tapping was in truth the much yearned for computer code.

Jim remembered fondly, "I told all my clients: 'last one to Sherlock is a sissy'."

And the sleuth wanted to use the code – to revive Jim Moriarty. This time the disappointment was perfectly genuine. Jim buried his head in his hands in mock despair. "No, no, no, no, no! This is too easy," he protested. "There is no key, DOOFUS!" he yelled.

"Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless," he explained, exasperated at Sherlock's naivety. And the detective looked confused, of all things.

"You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock." He really thought Sherlock would have known better, but played along – for the sake of playing, of course.

"But the rhythm -" the sleuth objected.

"Partita number one. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach!" Jim revealed, sarcastic.

"But then how did -"

Once again, Jim didn't even let him finish. "Then how did I break into the bank, to the Tower, to the prison?" He spread his arms expressively. Embracing all his coups in one. It was all so simple. "Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever." Too right that was – but still he'd hoped Sherlock's knowledge of technology wouldn't let him believe his fabrication. But the hope for clever had eclipsed all the rest. Go figure.

"Now shall we finish the game?" the consultant criminal prompted, impatient. "One final act. Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it."For a moment Sherly pretended (surely pretended) not to know what he had to do, but only a moment.

Jim quoted the upcoming newspapers titles, remarking that people would believe them. "I love newspapers. Fairytales. And pretty Grimm ones, too," he pointed out.

Sherlock walked over to the edge of the rooftop and looked down. Checking if his plans were already in place? Measuring the drop? Jim checked too. As he said, nice.

Sherlock still wanted to fight him. Disprove his lies.

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort," the consultant criminal exclaimed, exasperated. His plan had to go through. He hadn't done all this just to see it thwarted in the end. "Go on. For me. Pleeease?"

Instead of complying, Sherly – his breath short – grabbed him by the collar and spun him around, pushing him nearer to the edge. The physical contact was wonderful. Almost sexual. Jim waited for what he'd do, perking up.

"You're insane," the sleuth declared. Well, that was anti-climatic.

Jim blinked away his wonderment and queried, " You're just getting that now?" He'd been a bit insane from birth, by people's standards. And Sherly had had ample time to figure it out. Jim was disappointed.

Then Sherlock was holding him _over_ the ledge, and the blood was singing in Jim's veins. He wasn't afraid. He was high on it. He opened his arms wide, and abandoned himself with full trust to his friend's hold. Time to play his game.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive," he stated, nonplussed. Sherly frowned. Hadn't he figured it out yet? "Your friends will die if you don't." Jim felt so gleeful. Perfect, wasn't it?

There was fear in Sherlock's eyes, and he immediately acknowledged, "John." Jealousy burned bright inside Jim, but that'd be resolved soon. Somehow.

"Not just John. Everyone," the consulting criminal whispered, like the devil himself.

"Mrs. Hudson," the sleuth uttered quietly.

Jim smiled at him – now they were getting closer to it – and again whispered, "Everyone."

"Lestrade," Sherlock guessed. Oh, but he cared for the DI.

Jim explained the game – three lives for one – and, furious, Sherlock pulled him to safety. Killing Jim would have solved nothing. Sherly must have expected this, in some form, but he gave a wondrous performance – gaze lost, breath heavy – as if he was really contemplating his own death. (Well, Jim supposed that something _could_ go wrong – though it better _not_ or he'd find the people responsible and destroy him utterly before following his old master.) Jim shook himself free of Sherly's grasp because the show required it, no matter how reluctant he was to give up the contact, and smiled in triumph. "You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you want with me," he declared (and he'd probably find it pleasurable too), "but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only friends in the world will die unless..."

"Unless I kill myself – complete your story," Sherlock concluded.

Jim nodded and smiled, utterly happy. Either Sherly gave up his friends, or Jim would remove them. Either way, Watson was finally out of the picture. "You've gotta admit that's sexier," he remarked. It was a beautiful story. And they could pretend to die and move on – maybe away. Romeo and Juliet (but the boys' plan would work this time.)

"And I die in disgrace," the detective said.

"Of _course_ , that's the _point_ of this." He'd made Sherlock into what the consulting detective was and now he'd unmake him.

"Oh, you've got an audience now." These should be Sherlock's men. Plan ready. "Off your pop. Go on." His beloved sleuth obediently climbed onto the ledge, but still he hesitated. Afraid?

"I _told_ you how this ends," Jim prompted, as a way of encouragement. Or did Sherly want him to kill his friends? He could do that. "Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. _I'm_ certainly not gonna do it." He looked at Sherlock, expecting to enjoy the show.

But Sherlock wanted 'privacy' (afraid that Jim would notice how he was faking his death?) so, though disappointed, Jim moved away a bit. A moment later, though, Sherlock was laughing – and that made Jim beyond angry and frustrated. Why suddenly so gleeful? And why wasn't he complying with the plan? "What did I miss?" Jim growled.

His wording had given him away, and alerted Sherlock to the fact that there was a calling off code ('Pets allowed') in case Jim should realize that Sherly would be too sad without his little safety net. And now it was Sherlock's turn to circle him all shark-like and sing song, "I don't have to die if I've got you."

Jim laughed at that, suddenly relieved. He'd waited so long to get rid of these people (of _John bloody Watson_ ). Not even Sherlock could change his mind now. "Oh! You think you can _make_ me stop the order. You think you can make me do that?"

"So do you," Sherlock replied. Oh, almost anything for you Sherly, but not that.

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to," he pointed out.

Sherlock's next words left him all shivery; he loved when his boy got so intense. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

So sexy a threat (a promise?). All Jim wanted to say was, "Yes, please." He didn't let himself be swayed, though. He shook his head. "Naaah. You talk big. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels," he objected. Sherlock wouldn't even _know_ how to torture the answer out of him.

"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them," Sherlock said darkly.

So maybe Jim needed to rethink the assessment he'd done just now. His boy was certainly serious. And hopefully he'd get creative. Jim blinked and closed his eyes a moment to rewind his thoughts, then smiled. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He laughed in utter delight. They weren't just destined for each other. They might as well be one soul split in two at the start of time itself. Wasn't this wondrous? "You're me. _Thank_ you."

Sherly might have played against him, pretended to be good, but they really were the same. Mirrored creatures. (Was maybe this not Sherlock's first life, too?) The proof elated him. He almost embraced the sleuth, then and there, then remembered the plan and settled for shaking hands. And his detective agreed to it. "Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. _Bless_ you." He really hoped Someone (his personal, caring Higher Power?) blessed Sherly. With all his heart.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out. Well, good luck with that," he declared. With a last grin and pulling Sherlock close (so close, almost impossibly close, God yes) he took his gun and showed Sherly how it was done. Faking your death. Either Sherly didn't realize, or he realized – but he should realize, too, that they'd been losing time chatting. Too late to torture the answer out of Jim either way. Too late – that's what Jim's actions said.

If the horrified look and shallow breath were a result of Jim 'offing' himself in front of him, or of realizing that he had to jump (no time for playing anymore) Jim couldn't say. But God, shocked – scared – was a look so becoming on Sherlock. It wasn't fair. He made everything sexy. Jim looked at the sky and heard his boy's 'note'. He heard Sherly spreading Jim's lies – confessing them to his little pet. The pet that Sherlock would now have to abandon. High time, if you asked him. Life was perking up now.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise is mine. Obviously. I owe an apology to Sendai who asked me expressly not to do this, but it is my firm headcanon and I really couldn’t help myself. As always, all my gratefulness to Ennui Enigma for making this presentable.

Jim really couldn’t help himself. When Seb arrived, he stood deathly still, eyes staring apparently at nothing.

“Jim. Fuck! Jim!” Seb called, panicked. “What should I do? I told you Alice should be doing this shit.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Seb, we’re _ditching_ Alice,” the consulting criminal chided, without getting up.

“Not funny!” Sebastian positively roared.

“It was – for _me_ ,” Moriarty bit back with a smirk. “Oh good. You brought the body bag.”

“Since Holmes jumped, who’s it for?” the sniper wondered.

“For me, silly. If I’m seen walking away from here, Mycroft won’t rest until he’s caught me again, and punished me for how much of a bother my tricks are. If they see you bringing away my dead body, they won’t care. Whether you mean to bury me or fuck my cold body, they’ll let you. You’re not the brains – they won’t care,” Jim explained with a shrug.

“Jim! Eeww!” Seb exclaimed. Not many things made him squeamish, but this did.

“When I do actually die you might surprise yourself, tiger,” the consulting criminal bit back.

“When you do die, I’m not fucking you – I’m bloody joining you, Jim,” the sniper stated in complete seriousness.

“Aawww! How sweet, my dear,” Moriarty cooed.

It was high time to leave the roof, though, so they did – and even if he wasn’t exactly comfortable, Jim didn’t complain. They made a stop along the way to burn a body – Seb’s latest hit – in a complacent funeral house, in case Mycroft got scrupulous and followed the sniper’ tracks for a while.

Afterwards, they reached the safe house – a safe villa, honestly, but with the profits from all his murders Sebastian could afford it – that would be Jim’s world for as long as needed. He couldn’t get caught on camera strolling around. Maybe he’d overestimated how annoyed Mycroft would be with him, but just in case Sherly hadn’t noticed his fake death – jury was still out on that – it’d ruin the surprise later.

Being dead was such a holiday. The notice of his passing spread like wildfire, obviously, so – no work anymore. No one mourned him – not that he expected anyone to, he wasn’t much loved – but Jim liked to think that his clients would be annoyed at the loss of such a powerful asset.

Well, apparently that last sentence wasn’t entirely true. Alice mourned him, at least she searched for a replacement, and Seb was the next best thing. She called and the sniper invited her home, where Jim could check everything from a false mirror. She was all teary-eyed, and her reasoning could be summed up as, “You need comfort. I need comfort. Your house is better than mine. Let’s shack up together.”

“No.” Seb’s voice was flat. “Let’s be honest, Alice. I’ve never liked you. _Jim_ liked you. I might fuck you every now and then for old times’ sake, but even if I needed comfort, I wouldn’t want yours. But I don’t need comfort right now. I need to kill someone.”

“Pity that the two mad hatters are both already dead, then. The other Holmes is out of your bloody reach – well, I suppose not if you don’t care to survive – is that what this is, Sebbykins?” she replied, all fake concern.

His favourite sniper grit his teeth against the nickname. “You don’t start psychoanalysing me, ‘Lice. And I will give you one good suggestion. You want someone for reciprocal bloody comfort? There’s someone else who is going through genius madman withdrawal. I promise not to kill him.”

“Nobody else cared about Jim,” she objected, shaking her head.

“Not Jim,” Moran cut her out.

“You want me to date John bloody Watson? Yeah. That’d go so well. ‘I had you in my sights, and thought you were cool at the pool, and now we’re both lonely so let’s date, why not?’ ” she protested loudly.

“Why don’t you try with, ‘You’re a doctor, I’m a nurse. I believe that you weren’t either victim or accomplice. I’ve lost a friend recently too – the bloody arse shot himself without even giving a hint of warning beforehand – so I know what it’s like. Besides, you walk like you’re Mr. Sex so I’m kinda interested in you,’ ?” Sebastian replied, ending by batting his eyelashes coyly in a ridiculous imitation of seductive Alice.

That made her laugh heartily. “Yeah. Yeah. That might actually work. Who knows, maybe I’ll take you up on that proposal. I’ll need a new name, though. Something matching. Ordinary. Even boring, on the surface.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it,” Sebastian growled back, shrugging.

“I’m still very interested in that every now and then, Sebs,” she purred, rubbing herself against him.

“Oh, I’ll fuck you alright, but not tonight. Not in the mood for females tonight,” Sebastian told her brazenly, shoving her lightly away. She pouted, but left.

“So? Did I act right?” the sniper asked the empty room.

“Perfect, kitten. After all, the doctor should get a consolation prize for all the errands he ran. And I need someone in place should I decide I’d really rather burn him out despite our little pact. Now, you go to put on your velvet ears and I’ll show you how much I like obedient little pets,” Jim agreed, swaggering inside the room. He didn’t like cats as a rule, but Seb purred in a decidedly feline manner when contented sometimes, and the former consulting criminal had decided that he could tolerate at least this Felis (species still up for debate).

It was when Jim was surfing online that he first discovered the “I believe in Sherlock Holmes” movement, he was absolutely delighted. Someone hadn’t been fooled (or they hero-worshipped Sherly dear so much that they couldn’t bear for their idol to fall down to hell). He registered immediately into their forums, websites and so on as ‘I (heart) SH’. 

Moriarty became a very active member, and he invited everyone to follow logic if they did indeed believe in Sherlock Holmes. “Because you know, if he was the genius we know he was and not a fraud, then…Moriarty was real,” he typed, laughing to himself.

His words were reasonable, and spread quickly. Soon, Sherlock’s and his names were once again side by side wherever their organization’s slogan appeared. Pity that he couldn’t go to their reunions. He could pass as a perfect lookalike of himself, certainly, but he would be stared at with disgust or fear nonetheless. He became good friend with a number of Sheriarty fans. If only it was true, kids. If only.

It wasn’t Jim who inflamed the believers with the hope that Sherlock might have survived the Fall. He’d be perfectly content to keep the sleuth entirely to himself. But, someone threw the idea out and the fans gobbled it up like starving wolves on a lame prey. 

Jim heard some pretty absurd theories. (Bungee jumping?! They thought he’d let Sherlock do that?) Other theories were at least more plausible, and not a little amusing. Points for imagination to everyone, really. Where Sherlock might have scolded for fabricating hypotheses without data; Jim appreciated a well told story. And some of the storieswere quite well woven indeed. Loitering with the other Sherlock fans and roleplaying with Sebastian (with or without cat ears) made the emptier days just barely bearable.

Occasionally Jim was the unseen voyeur when Alice (now under a new alias) came by the villa to be fucked. He’d specifically told Seb to not use a condom and surprisingly she’d accepted. Such antics were a momentary distraction, while he oversaw a side plan which was going nice and smooth. She complained about John’s nightmares, but not much more.

“He’s surprisingly funny,” she once told Sebastian, “but I still like you so much better. No masks required.”

“Our accord was every now and then, Alice. Or I might ditch you altogether,” the sniper threatened, affecting boredom.

Seb wouldn’t – Jim wouldn’t let him. Yes, the consulting criminal had thought they would. But anyone is entitled to change opinion, isn’t he? As long as she was just another pawn, she could stay as such. He’d always wanted to try this particular project…

But as always, all that – everything, really – paled in comparison to Sherlock. Their new games. Their _private_ games – no annoying pets or media circus, or other meddlers. Jim was still the Spider, deathly still like the hunter awaiting his next victim, but yet, oh so very aware of the least twitch in every inch of his web. There were all the ways he’d organized to keep track (spy, because he didn’t trust them, naturally) of his minions were still very much in place, the controlled people unaware of it. And, of course, the creature (he hadn’t seen enough documentaries to know which it could be) destroying the web one strand at a time.

Oh, it was delightful. Of course, it was a game a bit peculiar, one where Jim had exhausted his moves once he’d placed his pawns on the chessboard. Once again, though, Sherlock was dedicating all his time and energy to Jim – or to his network. It was flattering.

His boy worked relentlessly, no distraction, no pause. Yes, it was definitely and utterly flattering – and breathtakingly beautiful. Sherlock was a lean, black bird of prey fallingunexpectedly into certain ‘company’ that Jim had arranged for – and ultimately owned. (He preferred the business terminology of ‘company’ over other terms that were much less professional like ‘mafia family’ or ‘gang’.)

How long would it be before his minions realized that they were targeted and hunted down, the consulting criminal wondered. (They had felt invincible, thanks to him. But Jim wasn’t there to provide for them anymore, was he?)

Jim tracked Sherlock’s progress. He smiled at the destruction of his own work, worried when he had no news for what felt like a long time (what was Sherly doing?...He hadn’t gotten hurt, had he?), tutted when he realized that the detective was struggling in accomplishing his self-imposed duty (it shouldn’t be that hard, Sherlock, come on!).

Jim chuckled like mad, and to Sebastian’s resigned confusion, he played both sides of the game. Helping Sherlock, sometimes. Sending him anonymous tips like breadcrumbs when he was stuck. Once, upon finding the sleuth on an Antwerp camera looking feverish, Jim took it upon himself todistract the Baron from Sherly's poorly concocted plans by flying in a helicopter piloted by Seb all the way to Belgium. He didn’t leave any witnesses of that visit – Seb got to amuse himself too. Sherlock and he missed each other by seconds, and worked together splendidly despite not having synchronized. First mate again, in a sense. He missed working with Sherlock. For him. And he got no, “Good boy,” this time either, just his own conscience of a job well done. Pity.

But if he revealed himself, he’d have changed the rules midway of these private games of theirs. Sherlock would have known the spider could rebuild his web almost as quickly as it was destroyed. He’d lose interest in such a Sisyphus’ work. That wouldn’t do at all.

Of course, being officially dead had its downsides. Mostly one, though: people didn’t fear Jim anymore. Before, people knew that Sherlock was his favourite plaything and would never dare to ruin him without his very specific orders. Now, everyone looked out for themselves and dealt with threats however they saw fit.

There was that time Sherlock got caught in Columbia…well, let’s just say it wasn’t a rival cartel which caused his captors’ drugs stockpile to explode, distracting them enough for him to slip away. (These jobs made Sebastian laugh…even if he was perhaps a tad jealous deep down).

Jim looked out for what was his – not always, of course. That would become quickly boring for Sherlock. The sleuth would hate his unknown guardian angel if he was denied the thrill of risking his own life.

But the consulting criminal was disappointed. Last strand of his web. (Then again, of course, there were a few companies whose connection to him Jim had hidden well – last pawn in their games, though.) He really thought Sherlock could handle it. A quick work. But maybe distracted by thoughts of the endgame – and above all, of the afterwards – Sherly had gotten himself caught.

This time, Jim didn’t help him out by organising his daring escape. Not yet, at least. Sherlock didn’t deserve it (especially because Jim dreaded to know whose thought had distracted the sleuth so much, and it miffed him to no end). Seb hadn’t expected that – hadn’t understood. But he couldn’t read Jim’s thoughts, and the consulting criminal didn’t feel like explaining (the detective got distracted by thoughts of going home – to his bloody pet!).

When Sherlock attempted escape on his own (and failed – really?!) Jim started considering about intervening. He didn’t want the sleuth to be killed, God forbid. Only taught a lesson (‘No. Thinking. About. Pets!’).

Big brother beat the criminal mastermind to it. And completely destroyed the place – and the torturers. Oh well. Jim had so looked forward to torturing someone. The fact that he agreed that Sherlock needed a lesson didn’t mean that they could do so without orders. Never mind that the order-giver looked dead. Logic was reserved to when it was convenient – and not in the way of fun.                                  


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own nothing.

Since Sherly was coming home, Jim decided it would be better to plant someone close to him. The more his little net was monitored, the better. The consulting criminal had ignored Molly last time because Sherlock would need her, but now there was no reason to overlook her.  (And besides – not that he’d admit it – the criminal mastermind found out that he liked playing matchmaker).

Seb was on a mission to find Tom (alias Curls from the Hansel and Gretel case) and make Molly’s future romantic interest a proposition over a pint. “Are you allergic to cats?” was his opening line. When the man denied it, Sebastian smirked.

“You know what they say, prevention’s better than cure. I don’t need it at the moment, but we might need to falsify a post-mortem report someday. And there’s a cute pathologist with a cat that could easily be distracted by your pretty face while we do that. What do you say? Ready for a fling? I’d pay you, of course,” he added.

“Why don’t you just pay her to look away?” Tom queried, suspicious that Sebastian was somehow giving him the short straw – it seemed too easy of a job, after all. There had to be some heavy downsides.

“I would, but even if her morality is somehow elastic, she still will only act for a good cause – and I’m short on that currency.”

Tom laughed. “Fine, I’ll take the assignment. It’ll be fun.”

“Good boy,” the former Colonel replied. Jim would be satisfied. Molly should be too. Tom was right up her alley, at least physically. She could play pretend for a while, even if the lad lacked genius in a painful way. But one couldn’t have everything.

Sebastian honestly expected that now that the web was ‘destroyed’ (at least as far as the detective knew) they’d go back to full surveillance on the one Jim insisted calling Sherlock’s pet – the sleuth would want to reunite, surely? But before they could organize it properly (it would be harder to do, keeping Mary – as Alice liked to be called now – in the dark like the consulting criminal insisted) Sherlock Holmes had already contacted him. Christ, but the man couldn’t wait a second, uh? Not even to heal.

They knew from Mary (Jim thought such an alias’ choice happened because Seb’s Supernatural addiction was too contagious to resist), who popped up unannounced. She almost surprised Jim cuddling his favourite sniper. “You won’t believe me,” she blurted out. “He’s not dead.”

“Jim?” Seb queried hopefully, hoping to throw her off the scent of his being in the little dupe. He could gauge, at the same time, if she’d seen the boss somewhere by chance, no matter how careful they thought they had been. Jim had gotten a serious case of cabin fever and taken a walk after disabling all the nearby cameras, twice. True, with her introduction it was unlikely, but still – better to be cautious.

“The other one. Sherly dearest. He interrupted the dinner during which I got engaged – not very polite, that, but then again, he does have a story of ruining John’s dates – playing waiter with a ridiculous painted moustache,” she recounted, unable to keep an amused smile from her lips.

“And how did your beloved fiancé react?”

“What do you expect?” She smirked. “John attacked him. Three separate times. We kept getting gently but firmly asked to leave the places to which we moved – quality dropping, but well, that was to be expected. I was having such a nice dinner. Can’t fault him either, though – the madman seemed to think that this was the best joke of the season.” Mary shook her head in mock despair.

Sebastian frowned. Sherly had been attacked – hurt on top of what he’d recently gone through? Jim wouldn’t like the news. At all. “But he defended himself, yes?” he wondered. “Pulled some judo move maybe?” Jim had said the sleuth knew several martial arts, after all. But oh, he would be so miffed about losing the opportunity to see this live – they’d try to recuperate some sort of footage, of course.

“Not at all. I think he knew that he deserved everything John dished out – and worse. He realized that any sort of resistance would just have inflamed Captain Watson more. Hey, say – I know that now you’re planning his demise, ‘cause he doesn’t have any business being alive when Jim isn’t – I know what that frown is about – but I have a proposal,” she explained with a shrug.

Mary took a deep breath, almost to steel herself, and then she stated, “People like you and me (and John, of course) we need a mad genius to make our fun. Would you pick entertainment over revenge? I could introduce you to him and John. With Johnny-boy, it’ll go swimmingly – you have all these army stories to swap over a pint. Well, maybe don’t tell him why you left the army. Sherlock, he’ll think he doesn’t need you (he already has John, after all) but if he had another sniper to count on, another soul that doesn’t judge him for the times John is too busy to play…oh, he’d like that. And I bet John would love knowing he’d have backup as well.”                

“I can only promise you I won’t kill him. No matter how tempting. You want to play with him, play all you want. But for me it’s too soon. I might take you up on that offer – tomorrow or in ten years. Today the idea of openly siding with Holmes makes my skin crawl,” the former Colonel bit back.

Besides, Jim would have him drawn and quartered if he so much as _thought_ about killing his precious Sherly. He would have flat out refused the offer – one mad genius  at a time was quite enough to deal with, thank you very much – but Moriarty was quite intent on invading the detective’s side of the board and might find it a brilliant idea.

“Fine, I won’t insist, but…too soon? It’s been two whole years, Sebby. Even the apparently-not-widowed Captain had started to move on. You will have to accept that Jim is gone - preferably someday soon. There’s still fun to be had without him, I promise,” now-Mary teased, smiling with too much teeth.

“Not for me,” Moran choked out – and he was being a brilliant actor, if he might say so himself.

“Try to get over it, for your own good. I mentioned it because, you know, now would be the perfect time to introduce you. John is pouting and doesn’t want to even talk to his detective…which means Sherly has a vacancy. Oh, he’ll try to fill it – prove he doesn’t need John, like Jim used to insist we were all replaceable, even when we weren’t, or he would have done so just to prove that point – which is why with your CV you’d be almost too perfect. But I promised him that I’d talk my fiancé around. When the vacancy soon closes up, it’ll be harder for you to be accepted by the two flirting idiots and join the fun, even if I’d do my best for you anyway.” The woman sounded entirely too fond of the ‘two idiots’. Now Jim would get jealous of her.

Sebastian shrugged, and soon Alice (Mary) was on her way. Her departure meant a seething Jim could come out. “I can’t believe it! He _hurt_ Sherly!” the consulting criminal growled.

“Oh, I can. If you’d faked your death to _me_ – ” Moran said, frowning.

“I did!” Jim cheerfully chimed in.

“Not for two bloody years, you didn’t. If you had, I’d hurt you too. And then, I’d have tied you up so you could never get more than two feet away from me,” the sniper declared savagely.

“Let’s see who’s going to end up tied, sweetie,” Moriarty countered with a leer.

Now, pastimes notwithstanding, Seb expected the order to kill (or maybe maim) John Watson soon. It seemed that Jim had different priorities, though. “Since he’s back, I can be back, too,” he announced with a grin.

It soon became known among the lawbreakers that news of the consulting criminal’s demise were greatly exaggerated, and that it had been no more than a sabbatical year – or two, as it were.

“With Alice now playing in the opposite field – sort of – chances are that she won’t be abreast of the latest criminals’ gossip. Otherwise we’ll have a visit very soon,” Moriarty remarked with a crooked grin. He wasn’t even sure what he hoped for, but it seemed that his assessment of her was right. She didn’t burst in indignantly this time. Slacking off, lady?

One of the first clients Jim acquired rubbed Seb the wrong way. Of course, none of their clients was especially likable, but the sniper’s instincts were screaming against this one. There was something in the media tycoon doubling as master blackmailer that made Moran’s hair stand on end.

“I want Mycroft Holmes,” the man said, “I couldn’t find anything on my own, but there must be something. Everyone has a weak point – a dirty secret. If you’re as good as people say, you’ll find it for me, Mr. Moriarty.”

Jim sneered at him. “I swear, kids these days,” he remarked, despite being the younger one, “they can’t see farther than their own nose. Of course you didn’t find anything about Mike, _Charlie_. He’s too smart for dirty little secrets. This doesn’t mean that you can’t have him. . Pressure points pile up. Interlink. You don’t need anything on _Mycroft_ to have him in your possession.”

The consulting criminal smirked. “Because if there’s someone Mikey would throw everything away for, it’s his lovely, recently resurrected, little brother.”

“Now, Sherlock,” he added, counting the individuals on the fingers of his right hand, “there’s dirt about him, mostly the drug use, you understand, but he would definitely follow Wellington’s example, telling you to publish and be damned. I myself destroyed his reputation not that long ago, and he _let me_. He simply doesn’t care about that sort of thing.”

Magnussen frowned. “Then what –”

“But he _cares_ , oh how he cares,” Moriarty cut him off, going on as if his client hadn’t spoken at all, “about his little pet. Doctor John Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Oh, I see. A taste for blood, hmmm? More than even the army might think advisable? Some hushed-up scandal back there – or afterwards?” Magnussen wondered, eyes alighting with interest.

“No, no, no, NO!” Jim chided. “You’re getting confused with your readings of Sebby here. A taste for adventure and adrenaline, certainly. But Johnny-boy is inherently, disgustingly _good_. He wouldn’t get promoted to moral compass otherwise. He’s not an angel, obviously – but there’s nothing about him from whose consequences big brother couldn’t free him without breaking a sweat.”

Once again, Magnussen frowned. They were getting nowhere fast. Maybe coming had been a bad idea. Moriarty wasn’t all he claimed to be after all.

“But,” the consulting criminal concluded, “Johnny-boy has just become engaged, so we must suppose he does care about her to some extent. And about her – Mary Morstan, if we really want to call her so – there’s aplenty, my boy. Not just because she used to work for me – I think that’s decidedly not the worst thing that she’s done. John would be crushed if she were killed, you see? And Sherly can’t let that happen. Did I ever tell you about that time I kidnapped his blogger and he offered me the Bruce Partington missile plans? It was sweet of him, really. I hadn’t even asked for them, you see.” Jim smirked.

“And you would share her files,” Magnussen replied, saying more than asking, licking his lips in anticipation.

“I’ll forward you a copy in moments,” Moriarty agreed.

“I just need to read them the once, which I could do here. No physical or digital copies needed in my possession,” the blackmailer countered haughtily.

“Suit yourself,” Moriarty shrugged.

“Now about your recompense…Of course I would give you any sum for such a thing. But I was thinking that maybe I could repay you with _services_ of my own,” Magnussen proposed softly – managing to sound almost obscene nonetheless.

Jim snorted loudly at that, and Seb almost laughed. Way to go, Jim. You don’t need that creep’s ‘services’. “Do I look like I need any of that? Money? I opened the vault of the Bank of England for sport. Media influence? You think I can’t organize a press campaign or make the titles on my own? Where were you hidden two years ago exactly, _Charlie_? Secrets? Do I need to remind you that you came here seeking them? No, no, there’s only one thing you _will_ do if you want these files, Charlie-boy. You’ll _burn_ John Watson. Literally. I promised him, you see. I want the video feed of it,” the consulting criminal ordered.

There was a flame in Jim’s eyes, and Seb almost winced in sympathy for that poor Watson bloke. True, the sniper had expected something of the sort any day now, but ouch. Burning (alive he supposed)? That’s one mean way to go. Of course, a promise is a promise. He’s not intervening in Sherlock’s pet’s favour. Sebastian was too fond of his own skin staying firmly attached to his body to consider intervening.

“But he’s the middle link of this pressure point chain! If I do, your info will be entirely useless!” the blackmailer protested.

“ ‘Mary’,” Jim replied, with air quotes, “is _very_ good at endearing herself to widowers, you’ll see. But fine, let’s give the man a fighting chance. Make this a game. Give Sherly a hint – no, no, wait, give _Mary_ a hint – of things to come. Offer her something over which to bond with Sherlock, if she’s smart enough for it – and I think she will be. I’m afraid that our little army doctor will survive. Our favourite sleuth used to be very determined to make that happen.”

“That could work. Very well,” Magnussen agreed.

The very following day brought the video – not just of the bonfire, of the whole operation since the kidnapping, the media tycoon didn’t want to stay in debt with Jim any longer than he had to. Wise boy.

Seb smirked seeing Watson at 221B’s door. Of course. Can’t resist their respective madmen for any substantial length of time. The sniper knew that feeling perfectly. No matter how insane the plans Jim involved him in, he couldn’t even manage a protest. Sebastian bet that ‘Mary’ didn’t have much convincing to do. Though the blogger had the rottenest luck. Well, not so bad if he managed to survive this, Seb supposed.

Jim complained about the video following Watson and not Sherlock, of course – Magnussen hadn’t read the consulting criminal’s tastes at all, it seemed – but they’d pull the video of biker Sherly from the city’s CCTV after all.

Even Sebastian, who frankly found the sleuth more irritating than anything most of the time, had to admit that he looked smoking hot (bad pun, yeah, but adequate) all frantic and desperate. Jim’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. Sending Sherly’s blood thrumming – hadn’t that always been his aim? Mission definitely accomplished.

“Thank God the pet is still alive,” Seb remarked warmly.

“Why so?” the consulting criminal replied acidly.

“Look at that and tell me that Alice wouldn’t have had an attempt at suttee if the man had been dead. We couldn’t allow that, could we?” Sebastian explained. It was there for all to see, really.

“Maybe,” Jim admitted, pouting, “She wouldn’t have let him, though. She wants to play too.”

“Yeah, but a game with someone on suicide watch must be a nightmare. The pet has his uses, that’s all I’m saying. It’s not as if I like him, Jim,” Seb placated the man. _Though I understand him – and can respect him, a bit,_  he thought, but he knew better than add this in Jim’s face.

“He might have, but I could have done better any day,” the consulting criminal bit back, pouting even harder.

“ ’Course. You’re so much better. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s missing. I honestly hope he never realizes, too.”

“Why?” Jim queried sharply, clearly annoyed.

“Because if he wanted to switch flatmates you’d jump to the occasion, throw me away in a bloody skip and never look back once. Do you think I don’t know?” the sniper replied with a shrug.

“Don’t be absurd, Sebby. Even if we were flatmates, we’d still keep playing. I’d always need my favourite sniper,” Moriarty countered with a crooked grin.

Sebastian grinned back. “Wow. Now I’m relieved. I’ll be rooting for you to occupy the vacancy that’s about to open with the pet’s marriage then. Is that what you’re planning to do?”

“Don’t try to guess my plans, Seb. Don’t overexert your pretty little head.” 

Not everyone consulted Jim though. Some people really, really should have too.  Lord Moran, for example, was an idiot for not consulting Jim first. “Sherly must have been disappointed to have been called back for that unimaginative man,” Jim snickered. He had restarted full surveillance and seen, if not everything, most of the whole sordid affair with the train bomb –  enough to deduce the rest at least. “This does play into my plans though,” the consulting criminal added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ve tried to keep knowledge of you from the Holmes brothers, but you never know what Sherly might have heard. Someone might have mentioned that I liked working with Moran. Maybe our favourite sleuth will think that he’s put my right-hand man behind bars now. He might relax. Grow complacent. And above all, not expect the next round.” He smirked.

“If he does, he’ll lose all my respect,” Seb groused.

“Really?” Jim asked sharply.

“The man is a bloody idiot. You can’t stand morons, much less favour them. He should know. Actually, I’m glad that the cretin is not even my relative. I’d be ashamed,” the sniper stated, almost growling.

“True, true. Taking a rat for my lovely kitten would be humiliating for you. But if it keeps you safe, I’m content.” Moriarty revealed a half-smile that was way too angelic for him. At that. Seb could only smile warmly back. Only occasionally, maybe, but at least Jim did really care for him, or did he? 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing at all.

Despite being taken with the preparations for her upcoming wedding, Alice – Sebastian  couldn’t think of her as Mary without rolling his eyes at how fake a persona that name projected – found the time to come around to gossip and to be fucked silly (not in that order).

She was a total shit when it came to foreplay. Her idea of pillow talk included, “You’re absolutely the best among my lovers”. The sniper wondered idly how many there were, but decided that he didn’t care enough to ask.

Once she proposed, half in jest, “Maybe you should kill someone. Create a case. John and Sherlock will run after it and we’d have more free time to play. Would you believe that Sherly is reluctant to take cases now? He would definitely take one of yours, though. We learned from the best after all.”

No, Sebastian wouldn’t believe it. Sherlock lived for his cases – and with all probability would die from them. “What is he doing then?” the sniper couldn’t help but ask.

“What isn’t he doing would be the question to ask, honey. He’s a wonderful wedding planner,” was the reply, accompanied by a smirk.

At that, Sebastian guffawed. She pinched him playfully in retaliation. “No, really…I mean it, Sebbykins,” Alice purposefully used his pet name she knew that he hated. “Someone with his eye for details and that almost scary ability to focus. He’s perfect for the job. Of course, if he’d picked it as a career he’d go mad in a week, but since he really, _really_ cares about this he won’t complain about anything being boring. It’s almost moving how much he wants to make sure every little thing of the big day is perfect for John. He dearly wants to make him happy in some way at least. I swear, if I didn’t need Sherly to make my own entertainment too I’d probably leave the two silly men to themselves. He does love John more than I ever could, after all – and I’m not sure the reverse isn’t true, too.”

“Your doctor is greedy. He wants the both of you. And he’s not even making Sherlock choose. Not like us, who’d play together only as much as Jim allowed.” Seb was starting to understand why Jim was so very much against Watson. That wasn’t how you treated people who loved you.

Alice chuckled. “Johnny boy – as Jim would say – doesn’t even get what he’s doing. I swear, I’m putting him in a pharaoh costume sooner or later. He’s definitely the king of the Nile. So wilfully blind to everything that I don’t know how I refrain from rolling my eyes all the time.”       

What Sebastian didn’t expect was that Jim’s first outburst as soon as Alice left and he could come out was, “She called him _Sherly_.”

“Yeah, she did,” Seb agreed needlessly, not getting why Jim sounded so grouchy.

“ _I_ call him Sherly. He’s _my_ Sherly, not hers. She has no right to call him that,” the consulting criminal whined.

“Should I scold her next time she dares? Or do you want me to take a more proactive approach?” the sniper asked seriously. He was tempted to laugh at his lover’s silly complaint, but that would make Jim angry at him and he didn’t fancy having to win (or grovel) his way back in the man’s good graces. Better to have his orders and stick to them.

 

The consulting criminal thought about it a good five minutes. Finally he decided. “No, nothing like that. We’ll let her do whatever she wants as a wedding gift. You let it slide the first time, so reacting now would be out of character. It’s not yet time to get out of hiding. But there’s something I want you to obtain from her, pet.”

“Anything, Jim,” he assured earnestly.

“I want you to go to Watson’s wedding,” Jim declared with one of his insane grins.

“What?” the sniper croaked.  

 “I’d go myself, but there’s going to be too many people there who would recognize me. That stint with the trial has its downsides, it seems.”  The consulting criminal shrugged.

It turned out that Alice wasn’t at all opposed to the idea. She found it a marvellous joke. “Know what, I’ll invite all my lovers. Let’s see on how many of them Sherlock manages to pick up.” She smirked. “But what prompted this from you? Do you really want me to introduce you to our favourite detective? Time to play anew, Seb?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” the sniper said hurriedly, “I just want to see him with my own two eyes being all sentimental for once. I still don’t entirely believe it might happen, but if what you said is true, well –” Sebastian ended that sentence with a shrug.

A couple of days later, Alice sent him a text. _SH is interrogating our guests. LOL. He’ll call you soon. xoxo_

“Shall I tell him that there’s someone who very much wants to talk to him when he calls?” Seb queried with a wink at his lover, after showing him the message.

“Let’s not distract him from the wedding. That wouldn’t be polite,” Jim chided, clucking his tongue in reproach. “And don’t worry about him noticing your little tryst. All you have to do is tell him what a great friend she is while concentrating on what you really think of her. I know for a fact that you find her more annoying than not. You certainly didn’t protest when I decided to ditch her.”

Not that Sebastian ever dared to protest any of the consulting criminal’s plans, but it was true that he’d never liked her much. Jim mock interrogated him twice to be sure that Seb’s reading would be ‘God she’s annoying’ and not ‘that girl is only good enough for an occasional shag’.

When Seb met Sherlock up close and personal, he wasn’t scared. He’d dealt with Jim on a regular basis, and the detective was tame in comparison. The hard thing was concentrating on what Jim had told him to think and not let his mind stray to how easy it would be for him to kill the unsuspecting sleuth right now (bad Seb, Jim would never forgive you for that, and you know it).

He affected being bored with the whole interview, and soon Sherlock let him go. He had not noticed that Moran fucked Mary semi-regularly. He’d have mentioned it otherwise, wouldn’t he? The detective wasn’t known for his brain-to-mouth filter. Jim’s plans had worked perfectly. When didn’t they?

Jim seemed mildly amused, mostly, by this whole wedding thing and Sherlock’s involvement in it. Watson tying the knot with ‘Mary’ was certainly not something he wanted to stop. But he’d come to dread the stag night. With all that unresolved sexual tension in the air, alcohol might very well be the catalyst that would tip them over the edge, and that was…distasteful. Yeah, distasteful. Sherlock’s first time shouldn’t be a bit of drunken fumbling, and certainly not with his current pet, John Watson.

He didn’t know what to do, though. Coming out now would ruin the wedding, and the consulting criminal did so want to see how that would go. He started chatting with his old friends, the Sheriarty fans, to take his mind off things and give his brain time and ease to subconsciously come up with something good without the pressure of fretting.

That’s when he heard Tessa501 complaining about the vanishing date. He suggested that she wait another couple of days – the man might still reappear with an explanation on the odd points of the whole matter (not that Jim thought he would) – but to go to Sherlock if nothing happened by a certain date. That date, of course, would be the stag night’s day.

He knew Tessa. She would fret. She’d ponder her silly problem, and give her lover time to make reappearance. She’d take just enough courage to wait until the last moment to consult her idol. Perfect timing in order to ruin his stag night. Despite what Alice said, Sherlock wouldn’t reject a case that night. He’d want to impress John one last time, if nothing else prompted him to take it. Yes, Tessa would do nicely. Coming to this chat had been a brilliant idea.

He found her back in the same chat room after the stag night. Very unamused, but Jim couldn’t help but chuckle at her tale. Sherlock had been a huge disappointment for her, “clueing for looks”. Then again, if she couldn’t recognize when a man was entirely wasted it was her fault, wasn’t it? What did she expect? That he’d really deduce in his drunken state? Oh, please.

She didn’t mention anything about the sleuth looking particularly dishevelled (or, God forbid, him being sheet-clad), so Jim assumed that she’d arrived in time to stop the irreparable from happening. Thank God.

The day of the wedding saw everything in place – from the Watsons’ side and from Jim’s. The venue had so many cameras, beyond the one hidden in Sebastian’s buttonhole, that the consulting criminal would have been able to make a veritable movie of it if he wanted to, with images from every conceivable angle.

Nothing could stay hidden to his greedy eyes. Now he only needed popcorn. Or not. He’d probably choke on them if Sherlock was too sappy. (Could the sleuth possibly be sappy? Did he even know how to?) Anyway, everything was ready. And Sebastian was in place, all smartly dressed and looking too sexy for his own good (he’d peel the outfit from him with great gusto later).  

Seb wasn’t sure that this whole spying thing was such a good idea. It was sure to put Jim in a bad mood when he saw how awkwardly smitten with his pet the sleuth was. I mean, really? Refusing to move away for the photos ‘just bride and groom’? Had Sherlock convinced himself somewhere in that big brain of his that this was _their_ – his and John’s – wedding? Seb facepalmed for him.

And yet, not a moment later he was bonding with the bridesmaid. It was almost normal, for a wedding. Or as close to normal as the detective could ever get, anyway. He certainly wasn’t pulling her, though – even if she was nice enough to look at – but, well, he was gay. If he wasn’t something rarer like demisexual. (He’d fallen for the first friend he’d had in years, and Seb remembered Jim worried that _his Sherly_ might be nursing a bit of a crush on Victor).

Moran was glad that Jim had taught him lip-reading, because that way he didn’t miss ‘Mary’ gently teasing the detective. “Neither of us were the first, you know?” Oh boy. She wasn’t the only one inviting the exes then. Maybe the military man John was being a puppy with was an ‘ex’ as much as the sniper himself was? It would be only fair. Not fair to Sherlock, though. Why _wasn’t_ John fucking the detective still – or getting fucked by him, whatever – was honestly a mystery to Seb (though that was lucky – Jim would have a conniption when it inevitably happened).

Afterwards, Sherlock was reading the telegrams – well, sort of – and the sniper almost choked on his mouthful when he heard there was one from ‘CAM’. The creep was brazen, uh? Of course, he couldn’t be sure that was him, but if he was more like Jim than Sebastian had surmised at first then it definitely was the blackmailer. Teasing his chosen prey. Oh my. How would ‘Mary’ react? Things were going to become interesting very soon.

Finally the core – he’d thought at the time – of the best man’s speech. It started awkward and, in true Sherlock fashion, almost insulting to the groom (Seb could imagine Jim grinning) but it soon morphed in the highest of praise and a straight-out love declaration that moved everyone. Seb was crying too, thinking about the mood Jim would be in after seeing this – and who did you think he’d take it out on? The groom impulsively hugging Sherlock wouldn’t help Jim’s mood. (But really, confessing one’s love so openly at the person’s wedding…what was Sherlock thinking? Was he thinking at all?)               

It might have been a wonderful conclusion to a best man speech, but Sherlock clearly didn’t think so. The sleuth could not stop himself from talking about cases (that was his definition of fun, of course – the groom’s too, in all likelihood). Though, the elephant in the room? Sebastian wondered if someone else was engineering cases for the detective and his faithful sidekick. Someone with an agenda of his own -  one opposite to Jim’s, a matchmaking one. But who could that be? Maybe they should look into it.

After that came the interactive part – question time about the Bloody Guardsman case. Sebastian kept prudently mum, since he didn’t want to attract attention to himself, though he was considering his extensive knowledge of weaponry to figure it out. Finally the speech began to get interesting instead of sappy. The DI fumbled with a hypothesis (dwarf, really?) and to Sebastian’s surprise Tom – Curls – spoke up too. And in a decidedly lewd manner, at that. ‘Meat dagger’? The sniper rolled his eyes. The case of the killer stabbing cock? Come on, lad, get your mind out of the gutter.

Moran didn’t expect the detective to willingly recount a failure of his. Something he had *not* brilliantly solved. And with such nonchalance over the lack of a result, too. But “the only feature of interest” of the case wasn’t even the clever mystery but John saving a life – the sleuth’s own words. Oh boy. Jim was going to be fuming. A veritable dragon.

And Sherlock still wasn’t shutting up. A few details over the stag night. Had he really argued with someone over ash? Seb couldn’t help but chuckle, and he wasn’t the only one. But then, instead of sitting up and letting the show go on, the sleuth started to ramble, making no sense at all. Mostly, he seemed absent-minded and trying not to interrupt his speech. What was he aiming at? His raving had to either peeter out soon or morph into something that made sense. And even if most probably hoped for the first option, Sebastian was curious enough – and he was certain Jim was, too – to see where the second one might lead.   

The detective emerged from his thoughts blurting out, “Murder,” and that got Sebastian’s enthusiastic attention, as well as that of most of the other bored guests. The sleuth compared it to marriage, but it was clear that wasn’t what he’d originally meant.

Indeed, he insisted, “Let’s play murder!” and Seb wondered if he could be of any help. If Sherlock wanted someone killed right here, right now, either efficiently or creatively – he’d learned from the best, after all – Moran was his man. And the bride his woman, but Seb doubted that ‘Mary’ would say so. Instead, the detective wanted them to pick a victim. Seb couldn’t help but be disappointed – that had never been his role. He didn’t expect the old bat to be so cheeky. Jim would have a fit if someone killed _his Sherly_ now.

But the sleuth was going on, explaining how he would kill this or that person. It was clearly something that he’d thought a long time about. Oh, but he was more like Jim – and Seb himself, for that matter – that he’d probably be comfortable admitting, wasn’t he? They were _really_ alike.

And suddenly, off they were – Sherlock and the happy couple – running like a bullet to solve a case. Thank God they’d bugged the whole place or Jim would have whined to no end about missing this. It seemed that their wannabe killer was very clever in his own right – though not enough to avoid getting caught. Maybe they could offer him a job once he was free. Jim liked clever people.

Once the ruckus from the case died down, Seb noticed the sleuth bonding with the bridesmaid once again (was he pirouetting? Jim would be cracking up) and soon later, he was playing a waltz for the Watsons. Was it him, Seb wondered, or did the music really have a tune way more melancholic than any wedding music had a right to be?

When the last notes died down, the sleuth slipped away, apparently unnoticed. Not unnoticed by the sniper, though. Right. That meant that he could get back home, too. He didn’t need a dance with the bride. And after everything that happened, Jim would need to be soothed. That was the only thing that really mattered to Seb.      

    


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing. A.N. I was wondering if you wanted to know what Sebastian looked like. Personally, I always imagine him looking exactly like Varoufakis, the Greek minister of economy. Feel free to tell me your inner casting, though! I’m curious.

Sebastian had been sure that after the wedding day they’d resume playing with the detective in earnest. But Jim decided that they should leave Sherly to stew on his own for a while still so that he’d be gagging for a proper game by the time they finally took pity on him.

The sniper couldn’t help but feel sorry for the sleuth a bit, reading on the blog his begging words for anyone at all to ask how he’d figured things out during the wedding case. My, but the detective needed his little pet, didn’t he?   He was tempted to give Sherlock what he wanted, but Jim tsked and told him this was good. He didn’t protest. Sherlock’s bit of emotional anguish was apparently well deserved. Then again, Jim had always been a bit of a sadist.  

Their surveillance never let out, and seeing the younger Holmes woo the bridesmaid was a huge surprise. “Our baby is growing up,” Seb pointed with a smirk. “Soon you won’t be able to call him ‘the Virgin’ anymore, Jim.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sebby!” the consulting criminal bit back, shaking his finger at him chidingly. “Janine is a woman, and not even particularly striking like Irene was. There’s no way Sherly will be able to bring himself to fuck her. The fact that he’s currently heartbroken doesn’t help. If he’d picked Sholto as a rebound fuck, I might be tempted to believe you, but with Janine there’s no way.”

“Well, she’s going to want something to keep him around, and for whatever reason, he seems keen on her,” Sebastian remarked.

“For whatever reason? You mean that you haven’t figured it out yet? Are you that slow, Bast? He approached her for the same reason Alice befriended her. It’s because of her position. If necessary, I’m sure he’ll do some things to her. But not ever with her,” Jim declared, the distinction apparently important.

“If you’re so sure…I mean, of course you’re right, you know him better than I do. If it were me, I’d at least get a shag out of the assignment, though.” Seb shrugged.

“Because you’d fuck anything that moves, Sebby. You ain’t saving yourself for something special,” Jim pointed out amiably. “And you aren’t gay either.”

“Right.” The sniper laughed.

The detective’s antics kept them entertained over the next few weeks. Jim huffed when Sherlock went back to drugs, and once again he ordered every dealer in London to give him only the best and look out for him. “I sort of expected this, but, still, it’s annoying.”

“Oh my. The poor lad is really devastatingly heartbroken, isn’t he? How bad does your heart have to be broken before it’s driven to relapsing?” the sniper remarked, shaking his head.

 “Of course he’s fucking heartbroken, but don’t be silly, Seb. This is not the reason at all. He’s hunting Magnussen, and he needs to make himself vulnerable to the blackmailer. He’s trying to entice him. That’s why he’s using again,” the consulting criminal declared.

“And I’m sure that’s what he tells himself too, Jim. But might I point out that he’s changed his drug of choice from cocaine to heroin? And what’s the point of opioids if not to make it stop hurting?” Sebastian countered, with a toothy grin.

Jim shrugged. “Or maybe he’s done that because he likes cocaine a bit too much already, and he wants to stop using as soon as the case ends. He’s picked something that dulls the mind thinking he can’t possibly get addicted to such a hateful thing.”

“Well then he should talk to a bloody doctor about how addiction fucking works. Heroin is entirely too easy to get hooked on, if that’s his aim,” the sniper growled. Could the detective really be this stupid? He still believed his theory.

“And he would, if his doctor hadn’t deserted him for his pretty little wife,” Jim countered with a grimace of disgust. Pets might be abandoned, if anything. Those that ran away instead were worthless scum.

“Alice would object to being called that,” Seb said, holding in a laugh at Jim’s picture of the situation, however accurate.

“Pretty? Maybe you’re right, she’s not so much,” the consulting criminal agreed with a smirk.

At that, Sebastian couldn’t help it – he guffawed. “Just because she doesn’t have the right cheekbones it doesn’t make her ugly,” he added.

“I thought you didn’t like her much,” Jim said sharply, looking…jealous? Was it even possible?

“It’s her character I take exception to. Physically she’s alright,” Moran explained with a shrug.

“But there’s better than her,” Jim insisted petulantly.

“There’s better than almost anyone, Jim. Thank God that has little bearing on picking one’s partner, at least long term,” Seb replied simply.

“Then why did you pick me?” the consulting criminal queried, a mixture of curiosity and coyness.

“Because you’re a genius. And more than that because you’re glowing fire in human form, and I’m a bloody moth. I can’t resist you,” Sebastian declared, smiling. Jim grinned.

Then came that nightmarish day. Alice called, and her opening line was, “You should have accepted when I offered to let you play with Sherlock, Sebby. Now it’s too late. I had to kill him, you see.”

“You WHAT?” Seb roared, putting her on speakerphone.

“I killed him. Why so shocked? Did you want to be the one to do it? Sorry, but he disturbed me while I was taking care of my blackmailer – you know what they say, if you want something done right, do it yourself. He even offered to help, poor thing, but he’d have inevitably snooped on why I was being blackmailed in the first place, discovered my connection to Moriarty, and then John would have left me – he can’t possibly forgive that – and they’d have proceeded to have fun on their own. I wasn’t about to allow this, obviously. It’d be entirely unacceptable,” she answered, as if it made perfect sense.

The sniper could feel her shrug over the line. Jim had gone ghostly white – but he wasn’t screaming yet. Sebastian was tempted to hug him, but there was a fury in the consultant criminal’s eyes that made him suspect comfort would be ill-received now, so he chose to inquire further, “Are you really sure he’s dead?”

“I shot him in the heart, Seb. True, John isn’t home yet, so I suppose that unless he’s offed himself too he’s at the hospital with Sherlock and they’re still trying to save him. But it would surprise me very much if they managed to do that. You know me, my aim is true,” she bragged smugly. Sadly, she was right.

“Yeah, well, thank you for the info. Bye, I’m sort of busy,” the sniper cut the conversation, eager to get back to Jim.

“How did we miss this?” the consulting criminal asked, voice strangled.

“Because not even you can hack the CCTV in Magnussen’s office without anyone noticing and asking awkward questions afterwards. Once he got there we let up the surveillance and waited to resume it when he came back to Baker Street,” Sebastian replied reasonably. “But, hey, even though‘Lice was being ironic when she decided to shoot his broken heart instead of putting a bullet in his brilliant brain, it gave him a fighting chance. And Sherlock is a fighter. Too stubborn to die because of one measly bullet.”

At least the sniper prayed he was. If he died, Seb had no idea how Jim would take the grief. Certainly, not well. It might crush him, worse than Watson’s reaction to Sherlock’s faked suicide. And he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to comfort Jim either. Would his comfort even be wanted after all?  “And they’re trying to save him as we speak,” Moran pointed out, trying to instil some hope in Jim’s haunted face.

“Well, they better do that,” the consulting criminal said sharply. “I’d hate to have a whole medical team to torture, too.” In addition to Alice, obviously.

“Do you want me to call ‘Lice over, saying I managed to free myself after all? She’d come happily, without suspecting anything,” the sniper proposed. Anything to distract Jim from his anguish.

“No. I’d do something I’d regret later. Like eating her flesh raw. That might give me prion disease,” Moriarty replied, with a lopsided grin that was more a grimace.

“Right. We’ll serve revenge cold, then,” Sebastian agreed quietly.

They immediately checked in with the hospitals until they found the one where Sherlock had been admitted. They learned that the detective was alive, but only just, thanks to the Lazarus syndrome. He’d been dead – they’d been ready to give up on him – but he’d revived himself all on his own.

“What did I say? Too stubborn to die. Just like you,” Sebastian remarked with a relieved grin. Whatever remained of Jim’s sanity was safe. The consulting criminal didn’t answer, but privately thanked his personal angel; sure he was the one to send Sherly back to him. He was very tempted to send him a get-well card, but in the end refrained. Such would be sure to shake him up, and it simply wouldn’t do while Sherlock needed to heal.

Their surveillance got turned up a notch, though, because bad things clearly happened whenever Jim wasn’t looking out for him. Jim didn’t miss anything. Not Janine being ridiculous. “As if anyone could believe her claims! He hates the bloody hat!” the consulting criminal pointed out. Not Magnussen being a creep. “Might have to deal with him, Seb. How would you like that?” Jim queried, smirking. The sniper grinned. He’d love to.

Not ‘Mary’ being herself. _Next time you’re tempted to shoot someone, shoot John._ Seb texted Alice. _You just don’t kill_ _SH. You wouldn’t have killed Jim back then either, would you?_

_Starting to fall for him, Seb? ;-)_ She replied. _I can’t kill John. It’d make no sense. Not to mention Sherl would kill me for it. Do *you* want SH alive?_ She would not have bothered to answer if she could have imagined killing Jim though. He protected her in the past. It was in her best interest not to, but if he crossed her? Well, that was why he had Seb.

_YEAH._ The sniper agreed emphatically. _I’d miss him. So try to behave, Alice. For me. Stalking him makes me feel closer to my Jim._ Sebastian had warned her. Let her know that Sherlock was looked out for. She wouldn’t want to have Seb hunting her down if she broke that last connection between Moran and his dead lover (that’s what she was supposed to believe, at least). Hopefully that would halt her from making any further attempts against the sleuth’s life.

But then Sherlock left the hospital and Jim started fretting. What was the silly boy plotting? (The pet, who’d finally caught up to his master, better be useful this time – not like at Magnussen’s.) It was only later, when the detective has been carried back to the hospital – did he know he was making Jim worry so? – that they learned about what happened inside the empty house.

Alice texted again. _Almost followed your suggestion and shot John. LOL. Took it out on a coin in the end._

_Poor innocent coin. How did John take it?_ Seb queried. He knew – the part of the confrontation happening in 221B they were privy to, obviously – but it was interesting to see how sincere Alice would be.

_Not very well. There might be a divorce in my future. If he does…well, maybe I will really end him. Rather than letting him have all the fun and be left out. Sherly surprised me though. He *defended* me, would you believe? :D_ she replied.

Yes, Seb would believe that, because he’d heard him. Though it was still a mystery to him why the sleuth would say such things. Surgery? He had died. Died and revived himself out of pure stubbornness. As a medical procedure, that shot had been shitty. Surely, Sherlock knew. Hell, surely *John* knew. He was an actual doctor. Why hadn’t he protested? (Was he as constitutionally incapable of contradicting the detective as Sebastian was with Jim?) _Why would he do that?_ The sniper wondered.

_No idea._ Alice texted back _. Unless he’s worried that if forced him choose, John would choose me again. As if. I’m currently a client, though. They’ll help me out with Magnussen. I still think I’d do better on my own, but I have to let them play if I want to be forgiven don’t I?_ she mused.

_Probably you should,_ Seb agreed _. Let them feel useful. They’ll like that._

_I will,_ she promised _. I will be seriously cross if they mess it up though._ If they did, she would be hunted down – or more probably, simply dead. Cross didn’t even start to cover how she’d feel. Sebastian wondered idly if Jim would have interfered with the detective to ensure that happened, but decided he probably wouldn’t. Jim wouldn’t leave the pleasure of killing her to anyone else.

It seemed that the consulting criminal’s decision not to act impulsively was more serious than Seb had surmised at first. Months passed, ‘Mary’ visited sometimes, and beyond ordering him to bruise her while they fucked, Jim made no move to deal with her in any way. Sometimes Sebastian suspected it was because she was pregnant, then he scolded himself for being ridiculous. More probably, he wanted to do so many things to her that he was having a bloody hard time deciding on a course of action. Or maybe he wanted Sherlock to be involved and was waiting for the convalescence to be over.

The surveillance on that front would have been beyond boring if Jim didn’t love the man so much. Seb didn’t doubt that Jim was bitterly envious of the pet who had the honours of being all domestic and taking care of the detective full time. For as much as ‘domestic’ usually unnerved Jim, he’d give anything to be able to cosy up with the sleuth on the sofa on lazy evenings.

Oh well. They would be back to playing together soon enough, hopefully. Having a live-in doctor should at least ensure that Sherlock would be right as rain as soon as humanly possible. Watson wouldn’t let him over exert himself and delay the recuperation. The detective didn’t seem to want to do such either, honestly. He lazed about and enjoyed entirely too much of his friend’s continued presence in 221B, much to Jim’s irritation. But that’s why the consulting criminal had Seb, didn’t he? To soothe him.

Finally Christmas came around, and – judging from Alice’s amused messages – things got moving. Jim sorely missed the times when he was at home in Sherlock’s house, but if he’d accompanied Alice he could just imagine the reactions, none of which would have been pleasant. So he was excluded from the reunion at the Holmes’ house (someday he’d be allowed back there – someday _soon_ ) and couldn’t help but wish hard for cameras to catch what would happen. But Mummy would undoubtedly get angry if Mycroft bugged them, so they depended entirely on Alice’s texts and old-fashioned surveillance of the exterior of the house. And Alice wasn’t texting them nearly enough – then again, texting heavily might be a bit impolite and nobody wanted to get on the bad side of Mummy Holmes.

When Sherlock and his pet sneaked out, Jim got excited – his Sherly was up to something, not simply leaving early as nobody had seen them out. What would they do? It turned out that their mission brought them to Appledore, where cameras were – wisely – everywhere, and this time Jim didn’t care one whit about being discovered. He brutally hacked Magnussen’s CCTV – no finesse at all. He’d deal with the man in case he protested, but after what happened last time the sleuth had entered the media tycoon’s territory he wasn’t about to let the boys play on their own.

Jim almost rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s naïve belief that he could save everyone simply by taking a few files – where had the phrase ‘research your enemy’s abilities’ gone? – but he was very pleased at how the detective acted when put in a pinch. Victor, so many years ago, had taught him that blackmailers had to be stopped, not caught – and stop Magnussen Sherly did, with a quip that made Jim smile.

Jim clapped enthusiastically when he saw the sleuth shoot the arrogant creep. He was so proud of his boy. Pity that afterwards everything went downhill, with apparently at least half MI6 – and bloody Mycroft – descending on him like a multi-headed predator. There were tears in  Sherlock’s eyes – not scared tears, Jim didn’t think, more of a ‘why do I always disappoint everyone’ tears – and Jim was so very tempted to storm in, protect him and assure him that he’d done well, very well indeed. Instead, he limited himself to growling darkly in the back of his throat at the scene – he wouldn’t arrive in time to be able to help him anyway.

Jim was appalled by the bloody politicians. Every last of them – no exception – breathed easier now that Magnussen was dead. But did they give Sherlock a recompense for his good deed? A medal, maybe? No. Simply because he’d committed one puny, well-meaning murder without being ordered, they wanted him punished.

The consulting criminal was more than half tempted to punish them for even thinking so, but though it would certainly be in his power, it would ultimately have been boring. They’d be begging and bartering for their lives in no time, and while that might ensure that Sherlock got off for free, after all  – as they’d certainly do whatever Moriarty required of them once kidnapped – Jim knew himself and the probability that he’d simply kill everyone in a fit of anger was simply too high. A ‘terrorist attack’ of the size his imagination was toying with would have caused a ruckus that wasn’t worth it.

But Sherly had to be saved, and apparently Mycroft wasn’t going to do it (Mummy would have been so disappointed in her eldest). Jim knew everything, the way he always knew – there was always someone, no matter how high his position, who could be bought or ‘persuaded’ to give information. Maybe not kill half of UK’s politicians, but some sort of show would be needed to remind everyone that a consulting detective was not a secret agent and should be kept where Scotland Yard could have him at hand.

No matter how much he’d enjoyed keeping his work hushed and fooling everyone of importance, it seemed that once again he’d have to say, “Get Sherlock…He’s not going to be of any use in the Ukraine.” Well. Maybe he wouldn’t have to say it outright. He hadn’t been forgotten, had he? Not in two measly years. Not after everything he’d done. People would remember the Spider – the evil mastermind. And everyone would know who was Britain’s only hope to resist him. The average Joe in the streets. Certainly the politicians, some of whom had consulted him in years past.

When Sherlock was scheduled to his death (of course Jim knew that detail, and frankly, how stupid could people be to opt for such?) Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, appeared on every screen in the United Kingdom and asked (mainly Sherlock, of course), “Did you miss me?” Time for another game. He was not about to let any so-called statesmen in the way of his fun. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: as always, I own nothing. A.N. This chapter comes with WARNINGS: GRAPHIC TORTURE, CHARACTER DEATH, BLOOD AND GORE, THREAT OF INFANTICIDE, THREAT OF RAPE/NONCON. If any of these bother you, please do not read it.

John had followed Sherlock to Baker Street, determined not to leave his side until this whole Moriarty affair was blown over (hopefully not blown up). He grimly recalled what happened the last time that he’d left the sleuth on his own for ten minutes during the consulting criminal’s games. The idiot had faked his death and disappeared for two long years. He was determined that there’d be no repeat of such this time.

_Good,_ thought ‘Mary’. Being alone suited her quite nicely. She dialled the number she knew by heart. “Did you see that?” she asked, outrage clearly ringing in her voice, when Seb answered on the second ring.

“The whole of England saw. Jim’s a bloody show-off,” the sniper replied, winking at his partner to show he wasn’t serious (he’d probably pay for that sentence later anyway). “So did you?”

“Did I what?” she inquired, sounding puzzled.

“Miss him,” Sebastian explained. It should have been obvious, he thought.

“Of course I bloody missed him, you big oaf. It’s been an awfully boring two years without Jim’s games. Hey, say, has he been in contact yet?” she asked, clearly eager to resume the fun. As if she hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

“He’s with me right now,” Moran revealed. Jim smiled. Now, time for the show to begin.

“Does he still have all his limbs?” she wondered, unable to suppress a tinkling laugh.

“Obviously. What sort of question is that?” Seb queried, his voice curt.

“After that joke, I’m half tempted to shoot him in the leg myself,” she revealed, shrugging even if the other couldn’t see her.

Not that Sebastian didn’t get where she came from, he’d probably be tempted himself if he hadn’t been in the know all this time, but… “Well, you can’t,” he bit back sharply. The bigger part of him was seething. How _dare she_ threaten Jim. If she wasn’t already a dead woman walking, he would have been after those words.

“Fine, I won’t. Jim’s always been smart, though. Doing his grand reveal by screen so we’d have time to cool down and not attack him on sight,” she remarked admiringly.

“There’s that, certainly.” It wouldn’t have surprised Seb if Jim had calculated such into his plans, though of course the bigger reason for the public display had been to save Sherly’s life.

Did Mary think that the consulting criminal didn’t care for the detective anymore? Or that he lacked the means to keep updated about what happened to the sleuth? Above all, didn’t her guilty conscience make her shiver knowing that Jim had returned? Sebastian hadn’t pegged her as stupid until now.

Jim motioned for the telephone. The sniper handed it over. “Hello darling, it’s me. I was wondering – I know you’re a Mary now, most of the time at least, but is there still a bit of Rose in you? You know how I loved sex with my sensual Rose. I’m just about to celebrate my return to life with ‘Bast. I was curious to know if you’d like to come over and join the party? Do you have at least three hours free for ‘shopping’ or whatever excuse you think works best? Or is the pet jealous and controlling?” he cooed genially.

“He might be…over Sherlock. I’ve been abandoned, thanks to you, and frankly it would surprise me very much if John remembered my existence at all today. So I’m certainly free. Should I bring champagne? Or those ginger cookies you love so much?” she proposed amiably.

“Bring both sets of handcuffs and the spreader bar, if you still own them,” the consulting criminal ordered.

“Of course I still have them. Too many memories I’m deeply fond of are _tied_ to them,” she admitted, smiling at her own pun. She gathered her ‘equipment’ and set off for their agreed upon rendezvous. Jim was back. Finally something not-boring to anticipate.   

But, as soon as she arrived at Seb’s home, the sniper knocked her out. She’d been easy prey, not expecting the attack after all. She woke up in a strange place, handcuffed to a pair of pipes with the spreader bar extended at its maximum. Cold concrete grated against her back. She was entirely naked. “Ouch,” she said. “Sebbykins, you didn’t have to hit so hard, I’d have gone along with anything.” She turned to Jim. “What are we role playing, rape? Not that I’m opposed. Just, when do you want me to start begging?”

“Whenever you feel like it, darling,” Jim answered with an icy calm. “But, just to be clear, I must amend your last statement.  We are not role playing.” His smile curved into a sinister sneer.

Uncomprehending, she gave him an enticing smile from her bonds. “But you can’t rape the willing, you know. I like you a lot, baby, no matter how kinky you get.” She didn’t believe Jim would hurt her…not too much anyway.

“Today isn’t about sex. It’s about punishment. And you’ve been a very, very naughty girl, Rose,” the consulting criminal stated, pacing angrily.

“Not true,” she objected in a high voice, “I’m your good girl, Jim. Always have been.”

“G _ood_?” he roared back _._ “You _killed_ Sherly!”

“Ooops…well, he’s alive now,” she stated, shrugging what little she could.

“It doesn’t matter. You still killed him,” Moriarty bit back, his voice dripping with venom.  

“Well, I didn’t know that you were alive!” she protested, panic suddenly beginning to build. Perhaps Jim wasn’t being just kinky. Perhaps he was actually upset at her. She tried to defend herself. “For all I knew, I was sending him to you so you could play again in heaven.”

“How _kind_ of you,” Jim spit back. “But did you really think so little of me?”

“So…little?” Rose echoed, still not comprehending the situation fully.

“Sherlock faked his death. Did you think I wouldn’t be able to do the same? We have a bond, you know. Once Sherlock came back, you could have – should have, really – figured out my own supposed ‘suicide’.” The consulting criminal was clearly insulted now and animatedly jabbed at her with a manicured finger.

“Look, Jim, I’m _sorry_ , ok? I’m sorry that I underestimated you, and I’m very, very sorry that I dared to touch your detective. Hell, I’m sorry that I talked to him without your permission, too.” Rose (a.k.a. Mary) was definitely frightened for her life now. Clearly Jim was upset. It didn’t take a genius to know what happened to the consulting criminal’s agents who dared fail him. From her shackled position hanging against the concrete wall, Mary suddenly felt acutely vulnerable.  

Desperate now she plunged ahead. “I want to be forgiven. I want to be your knight – remember, you used to call me that. Just…can we skip the worst of punishment? I’d do anything for you, Jimmy, love,” she begged.

She knew she wouldn’t be able to escape her well-earned retribution entirely, but maybe, if she begged prettily enough, Jim wouldn’t flay her from head to toe. Why oh why had she told Sebastian everything? If only Sherlock’s shooting had remained a mystery to him. But, Jim would have probably guessed the truth. He had an uncanny intuition regarding these things.

“Oh no baby, you’re not sorry,” Jim hissed, shaking his head. “Not sorry at all. But you will be, I assure you. As for doing anything…play along in the game and I might lighten your sentence.” It was a lie, of course. But he didn’t want her to beg too much or yell…yet.

He took her mobile phone and texted the pet, John. _Need you now. Please. Don’t tell Sherlock._ The address followed, and it was signed _xoxo Mary._

_What is it? And what are you doing there?_ The doctor replied back. Not a very attentive partner, was he? No ‘coming at once’ for his pregnant wife. Not when they were on a case, even if Sherlock couldn’t possibly find him just from the broadcast. He’d made sure of it.

No pretences anymore, then. _I brought her here. If you don’t come – alone – RIGHT NOW, I’m going to kill the baby. DO NOT tell Sherlock, doctor. I have other plans for him. JM_ Did the pet care about the child enough to follow his directions to the letter to protect her? Or would he stay by Sherlock’s side and guard him, forfeiting the unborn’s future? Jim wasn’t sure what he would have picked himself if he’d had a pup of his own on the way. Then again, the chances the baby was actually John’s were low. But, John didn’t know that, did he? The blogger had never been too clever.

The doctor followed orders without question, like a good little toy soldier. He’d insisted Sherlock stay home and keep working on the case when the detective tried to come along. That surprised Jim. Sherly really didn’t want to part from his pet, did he?Especially when John – rightly assuming they were under surveillance once again – refused to tell him anything beyond, “Errand for Mary, you’d be bored”, not risking his baby’s life…even  going so far as to refuse his company quite strongly. That would surely hurt Sherlock – John once again picking Mary’s needs over him. Even over a case as juicy as this. He hadn’t tried to dissuade John, he’d just asked to accompany him. He couldn’t help but deduce that he was unwelcome (would he realise why? Or be too hurt to do so?). Especially if he realised that he’d been lied to. In the end, the sleuth relented and let John go alone. He wouldn’t intrude where he was unwanted.  

The doctor had just left when Jim texted Sherly. _If you want to see me, the treasure hunt starts now. If you don’t, I might have to find someone else to play with. JM_ Not that he would, of course (he’d never enjoy playing with anyone else) but the detective would read it as a threat – because who else would Jim pick to play with if not with someone else of the detective’s entourage, someone who might not be so lucky as the sleuth – which was always good.

_I want to meet you. I have questions. SH_ Sherlock texted back. The perfect reply. After all, Jim had answers.

The consulting criminal called him. “First clue,” he announced…and started singing A song of sixpences. “Sing a song of [sixpence](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sixpence_\(British_coin\)),/ A pocket full of [rye](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rye)./[Four and twenty](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/24_\(number\)) [blackbirds](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_Blackbird),/Baked in a [pie](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pie),” with all that followed.

 

As soon as John arrived, Seb – pointing a gun at him – commanded “mobile phone”. John surrendered it without protest, and sighed when a minion patted him down and took away his gun. He supposed it was too much to hope he would be allowed it. But with  the sniper aiming at him point blank range, there would be no sense in trying to fight. What mattered now was Mary.

The moment he saw her, John moved to…shield her? Hug her? Try to free her? Who knew? (Since the blogger wasn’t the picklock of the team, Jim wasn’t worried.)

“Now,” Jim announced, coming into his line of sight, “I’m afraid that you’ve been called here for your professional services, doctor. You see, you’ll have a baby to deliver later.”

“But it’s not her time,” John objected.

“But it’s not that far off either, and since it’s her time to die now…Well, really, it’s your choice what happens to the baby. It’s not like I care,” Jim countered, shrugging in disinterest.

“Oh God! Jim, please,” she begged brokenly. She knew he was serious. He intended for her to die. The consulting criminal glowered at her. Mary shut up.

“You think I’d let you kill her?” John growled. Unarmed he might be, but he’d find a way. He’d try at least _._

_Ah, always so brave…so stupid a pet_ , Jim thought. “ _I_ deal with _my_ underlings however _I_ see fit,” he bit back acidly. “She _killed_ Sherlock! I’m surprised that you didn’t shoot her yourself, to be honest.”

“Underling?” the doctor echoed, clearly shocked.

“Didn’t know that, did you? I think she liked you since the pool,” the consulting criminal sneered.

“Ed, chain _the good doctor_ ,” he ordered to his minion, practically spitting the words, “make him face her until his services are needed. We don’t want him to get overwrought and mistakenly attempt to interrupt the proceedings. You do want the baby to be born, yes Johnny boy? If you do you won’t resist us.”

Fuming but scared of what Moriarty would do, John let himself be trussed up. If he couldn’t save Mary, he could at least save their child.

Jim dismissed Ed with John safely tied up. Seb, who looked on mildly amused, was allowed to stay. Jim quickly set up everything to his liking. A giant screen showing Sherlock’s investigation, a number of torture instruments at the ready. A manic grin spread across his lips. He was ready.

Sherlock was researching something on the web and texting compulsively, to his pet if his deep frown was any indicator. It would be an empty endeavour, since Seb had the doctor’s mobile phone – and sharp orders to ignore everything giving the impression that the pet didn’t care enough to check his own messages and reply, never mind running back to the sleuth’s side. Who knew? The inconvenience might even make Sherlock get distracted.

But another call did come through for Sherlock. It was the DI. Sherlock answered, “Of course I’m sure, Lestrade. Yes, the Royal Naval Museum. No, not a school, or an orphanage. Why? Because there’s a hoax on the internet claiming that that song was used by pirates looking to recruit crew. He’s teasing me.” And then, “No, I don’t think I owe you an explanation about why and how to amuse you, just take my word for it. I wouldn’t lie about Moriarty’s doing, now would I?  Meet me there. There’ll be another clue Moriarty left, and surely something for you too.” “No, not a bomb,” the sleuth chided sharply to the caller on the other end, “don’t be stupid. He won’t repeat himself. A biological weapon wouldn’t surprise me, though.”

Really, his Sherlock knew him too well. The detective could read his moods, couldn’t he? The anthrax set up to be released into the air vents across town in an hour would never be. Jim would live with that.

Jim smiled cruelly and began cutting. He chose his blades carefully and carved up slowly and methodically a true crossword on her. First vertical column, ‘Murderer.’ First horizontal row, “Mary”. Other significant words – and many insults, of course – followed.  He’d had a lot of time to think this up, and he was pretty proud of the result. Let her know what she was – let everyone who’d see the body know. Soon he had to gag her mouth, annoyed at her continued, high-pitched agonized screams. If she went on like that he risked missing something Sherlock would say – and that simply wasn’t on.

The sleuth arrived at the museum in the meantime and, as expected, quickly foiled Moriarty’s plot, finding and eliminating the biological terrorist agent. Well, not that the consulting criminal ever thought that this particular plan to kill innocent bystanders would have worked. He would have been deeply disappointed in Sherlock if it the man had failed, to be honest.  

Jim paused in his torturing to call Sherly and compliment him on a job well done. It was time to give him the next clue. A bunch of apparently random numbers. In truth, they were the atomic numbers of the noble gases – next stop the Parliament, specifically the House of Lords.  Yes, he knew, he was making it too easy. But to be honest, he was getting impatient to meet Sherlock again. It had been too long.

Despite that, he added, “But don’t worry if you can’t solve this one, my dear. I’ll give you the next clue in three hours either way. Pinky promise.” That was his way of granting his favourite detective a choice. He could solve the puzzle and save the people. Or, he could pretend to not solve the puzzle and let them all die. All those stupid politicians who had been so ready to send Sherly to certain death in Serbia? They deserved it.

In truth, the interesting thing wasn’t to see if – or how quick – Sherlock would solve his little enigma. It was the moral choice and Sherly’s response that interested Jim. Would his boy take the opportunity to avenge himself on the bloody political system that had deserted him? Or, would he do the ‘right thing’ even without John at his side? The consulting criminal wasn’t worried that anyone else might figure out the solution to his enigma. There was a reason others always called on Sherlock, you know.

As the torture progressed, Jim Moriarty became more vicious and frantic in his efforts, surrounding the crossword with deeper gashes, images he knew Sherly would have liked – like the bee on her clavicle. There were also just some deep, angry, punishing slashes. He’d been furious with her in the first place. Despite the current distraction with Sherlock,  he’d worked himself up to an angrier state. Sherlock was going to arrive at his lair soon. He deserved to find the completed work, proof of Jim’s utter devotion. Nobody harmed his Sherly without the consulting criminal exacting retribution. Mary’s demise was proof.   

But even without his two-legged moral compass, Sherlock chose to save the undeserving lives of the politicians with remarkable swiftness. Truth is, it took more time to persuade the politicians a madman had really managed to legitimately threaten them and that they should evacuate the building _right now_ than to solve the case _._  Let Lestrade’s squad do his job. Solving the case was the easy bit.

Jim sighed, unsure of his feeling. Was he disappointed that his careful preparations for revenge had been left unappreciated or happy that Sherly hadn’t changed and was still the good boy he remembered in spite of a few murders since the Fall?

The consulting criminal waited the promised three hours although knew the sleuth had solved the case much earlier. “So you solved it, my little angel. Good. Now for your next clue.” He sent Sherlock a photo with a tiny architectonical detail. Would he manage to determine where it was from in time? Or would the tourists and worshippers at Canterbury have an unpleasant surprise?

He’d hesitated, to be honest, before targeting a church, but given the church’s stance on animals and reincarnation he felt sure that his angel wasn’t of the Christian ilk…not if Christians weren’t in for a huge surprise after they died at least.

Would being in a church again, if for a case, refresh the heartbreak of the last time Sherlock had been in one? Jim wondered idly. Maybe to keep the effect he should have let the pet remain at the sleuth’s side? But, such was impossible.

Mary sagged limply in her bonds. Between the pain and blood loss, she’d drifted into a comatose state. A few more drops of blood oozing from her lacerations and she’d be officially dead. Her body was carved with red, dripping words across each inch of her skin – but for her distended uterus, which had no more than a few slight scratches. “Do you want the honour of the last cut? Or should I just keep stabbing?” Jim queried cheerfully.

“Give me the knife,” John replied. He tugged once again fruitlessly on his bonds as he’d done for the last hours. She was dead – or would be in minutes. If he could get the baby out before her last breath faded, there was a chance their unborn child could be saved. At a nod from Jim, the doctor was freed. He ached with want to snap the consulting criminal’s neck, but the sniper would kill him. Now his priority had to be saving baby Violet. Jim handed him the scalpel, grinning at the glare of powerless fury he received, and looked on the proceedings, interested.   

Mary’s body twitched involuntarily at the first scrape of the scalpel. She was beyond saving though now. Not even a moan whispered from underneath her gag. No further spasms occurred. Her last life breath slithered away with the thin trickled of blood that drained from her abdominal cavity. It was the least bloody caesarean John had ever performed. He had seconds to get the baby out before it too suffocated.

“We’re dead anyway,” her husband whispered under his breath. The ‘We’, of course, referred to him and Mary. He didn’t dream that the consulting criminal might let him go alive. John cut through the last fibres of her uterus and ripped open the womb, frantically he delved into the gaping belly wound with his bare hands to scoop out their baby – he barely dared believe it would still be alive. As he ripped apart her stomach and brought forth their baby, John’s eyes all the while apologized for the terrible mess he’d made. He’d failed Mary. He hadn’t been able to save her from Jim. And now he was destroying her body beyond what Jim had already inflicted. Mary  – or whatever her name was – was beyond saving. She was dead. Gone.

 

The slimy dripping human form in John’s hands let out a squalling scream. It, she, was alive. John held his precious bundle protectively with blood dripping off his elbows. Although open, Mary’s eyes were dull and unseeing. She was mercifully silent and dead.  Little Violet wailed compulsively and with vigour.

“Let me see her better,” Jim ordered. John sighed but gave in, coming closer.  No need to get shot now and drop her. “Oooh! See, Seb, she’s got your ears. She’s yours after all. You succeeded in producing one mini-sniper. Congratulations, tiger!” Jim crooned, manic. Sebastian didn’t react at all, continuing to keep John covered.  

“What?” the doctor replied, in a strangled tone.

“Oh my. You didn’t think you were the only one she fucked did you? Were you really that naïve?” the consulting criminal countered, his tone clearly showing how pathetic he thought the pet was. “Seb, show our guest to the other room. You’ll find baby bottle, diapers and other whatnots. She’ll have to be seen to, I imagine,” he added gaily. “I’ll be quick, though, because you’ll need to be there when Sherly arrives. He’ll want to see you.”

That was…surprisingly kind of Moriarty, actually, John thought. Maybe because the baby was his beloved sniper’s child. Was she really? Or was Moriarty lying to hurt him? He followed the sniper out of the room. “He’s a monster,” he remarked, once out of the consulting criminal’s hearing range.   

“He’s not,” Seb  countered angrily, immediately defending his love. “She killed _his Sherly_. He’s not usually the type to dirty his own hands, but he made an exception for her. I frankly don’t understand why you got the privilege of touching her when _I_ didn’t – some mind game, no doubt,” he muttered.

“You’ve touched her enough,” John replied bitterly.

“I didn’t even particularly like her, to be honest, but Jim liked the idea of the both of us together, so…” the sniper shrugged, unfeelingly.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to John anymore but the baby he carried in his arms. Baby Violet. (She was his baby, no matter what anyone had to say about it.) John bit his tongue and tended to Violet’s needs. Sebastian observed him with a detached look.

When Sherlock solved his quiz yet again. Jim gave him the address of his current position.  “But you better come alone, if you want your pet to survive. I’d hate to have to kill him in punishment,” the consulting detective warned. Lie. He’d be happy to kill John – but Sherlock mustn’t deduce that yet.

“You have John?” the detective queried, voice a bit strangled.

“When don’t I, love? He’s your pressure point, and you might not do what I ask, otherwise,” Jim countered, the pout sensed across the phone.

“Prove it,” the sleuth demanded.

Jim cut the call – and yelled for Seb. A moment later, he was calling Sherly back…from the doctor’s phone. “I hope you won’t insult me by believing we just pickpocketed him,” he remarked, “but talking to him is a reward that you haven’t earned yet, Sherlock.”

“Is he…?” the detective started.

Jim cut in, annoyed, “Oh for the love of God, he’s perfectly fine, I swear. He won’t stay that way for long though if you don’t haul your ass over here, alone, without any of your little followers.”

“Ten minutes,” Sherlock promised…and arrived in nine and half.

Everyone was there to welcome Sherlock too. John, holding the baby, and shielding her from the sight of her dead mother’s body. Seb, looking laid back but holding both his gun and John’s and keeping all in his sights (John’s gun trained on the sleuth so that if it came to worse it would appear that they’d had a falling out). Jim, wearing a once-white tracksuit now red with blood splatters like a Pollock painting. The now dead and disembowelled, chopped body of ‘Mary Morstan’. The last one attracted Sherlock’s eyes irresistibly once he confirmed that John was indeed alive (and the baby too, apparently).

“Do you like it?” Jim asked, beaming at Sherlock. “I’d apologize for my attire, but I wanted you to know that I did it myself. No minions. I wanted you to know that no one touches you, harms you in any way, puts a bullet through your heart…no one lays a finger on you except I allow it.”

“Do you expect me to thank you?” the sleuth said coldly.

“Your pet is safe. The baby (Seb’s the father, by the way) is safe. Your enemy is dead. A small thank you wouldn’t go amiss,” the consulting criminal countered. “Plus, I saved your life…but don’t mention it,” he added, waving that away.

The detective nodded minutely to recognize that last fact, then queried, “What do you want, Moriarty?”  

“Right now? A shower. Seven minutes, perhaps. But afterwards…I have a nice bedroom here. And we’ll work on changing your nickname,” Jim grinned, leering at Sherlock.

“I’d rather not,” the detective replied, through gritted teeth.

“Seb? Shoot the doctor,” the consulting criminal ordered, looking bored.

“No! Wait!” the sleuth leaped forward in an empty bid to stop him, or at least put himself in the path of the bullet.

Jim raised a hand to stop his sniper, who – expecting all this drama, and knowing that Jim wanted Sherly compliant more than he wanted John dead – had hesitated a fraction of second longer than he normally might have in pulling the trigger.

“I’ll do it,” the detective agreed, lowering his head in defeat. John let out a disbelieving, choked gasp.

“Seven minutes, dear,” Jim reminded him, cheery. “Seb, give them five together and then call Edward to lead Sherly to the playroom. Shoot the doctor if either attempts anything.”

The sniper nodded briskly but didn’t say a word. If he spoke, he feared one of them,  either Sherlock or Jim, might detect the jealousy flaming up in his heart. Such knowledge simply wouldn’t do.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. Again, WARNINGS FOR NONCON TOUCHING (BUT NO SEX), SUICIDE (WHICH YES, MEANS ANOTHER CHARACTER DEATH).

 

“You don’t have to go through with it,” John said as soon as Moriarty left the room, voice choked by emotion.

“Are you that eager to die, doctor?” Seb quipped, laughing. Both detective and blogger glowered at the sniper. If looks could kill, he’d be a dead man.

“Oh, you know me, John. It’s all transport. It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock reassured, waving his friend’s concerns away. He needed to do this. He needed to be strong for John, and if it meant putting on a brave – more, unconcerned – front when, in reality, inside he was terrified, so be it. As the sniper had just reminded them, he had no choice. John couldn’t be allowed to die.

“But it’s _Moriarty_ ,” the doctor pointed out – quite needlessly, in the detective’s opinion – helplessness and horror colouring his voice. After what he’d just seen the man do, he was quite obviously panicking. (Not that Sherlock fared better – but he had to hide it.)

“Not my first choice as a partner,” the sleuth acknowledged, with a look that said (though hopefully John didn’t hear that – it’d be a disaster otherwise), “Why couldn’t it be you? Why didn’t you want to?” “But he won’t kill me – it would end the game after all,” he pointed out bitterly. He loathed being the consulting criminal’s puppet.

Seb smirked to himself, but decided not to point out that Jim loved ‘his Sherly’ too much to hurt him severely…probably. Not unless the detective enraged him, at least. But they didn’t deserve the reassurance.

“And anyway, I won’t be there,” Sherlock added, shrugging.

“What?” John queried, in shocked incomprehension, duplicating the sniper’s feelings too. If Sherlock ran away, the doctor’s life would be forfeit – didn’t he care? John’s voice held a good deal of hope though – maybe he didn’t realize the full consequences of such an action on himself or perhaps John didn’t care so much for his own security?

“I’ll hide in my mind palace,” the sleuth explained.        

“That’s…a good idea, actually,” the blogger approved.

Seb barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. That was a horrible idea. When playing with Jim, you couldn’t simply lay back and think of England (or worse – like he suspected – of John). He’d take offense. Sherlock was in for an unpleasant surprise. “Time’s up,” the sniper announced. “Ed will show you the way.”

With a last, deep and longing look at his blogger cradling the now sleeping baby, the sleuth departed after Ed. Contrarily to his natural inclination, he didn’t immediately examine the room he was lead to. Even so, he couldn’t help but notice certain obvious details that were unsettling. He didn’t want to discover what might be waiting for him.

Ed left Sherlock alone in the room but remained just beyond the door, standing unnecessarily guard at his post. The sleuth noted this failure of fading footsteps from a departing Ed upon their separation. He knew Ed was just outside and wasn’t about to act rashly and possibly jeopardize John’s life, didn’t the minion know? Unsure of what would be allowed though, Sherlock remained awkwardly standing in the middle of the room.

Soon Jim came in from a different door than the one Sherlock had entered. Jim was entirely naked but for a towel with which he was rubbing his hair dry, and grinned in delight at the sight of ‘his Sherly’. “No need to be so tense, love. Get comfortable. Sit on the bed,” he prompted cheerfully.

So Sherlock did, with rigid movements – he had to keep Moriarty happy.

“Can’t say you’re overeager, are you?” the consulting criminal uttered, with a small frown. “Now, don’t you feel a bit overdressed? Or do you prefer that I be the one to unwrap my gift?”

“Whatever you want, Jim,” the sleuth droned tonelessly. He didn’t dare address the point of his eagerness – or lack of it. Moriarty didn’t really expect him to be looking forward to the experience, did he?

“I think I will, if you’re shy. But I expected more of a spark from you, baby,” the consulting criminal sighed, biting his lips in displeasure.

“Order me to,” Sherlock spit back. He wouldn’t disobey, but he certainly wasn’t going to make this something the other man would want to repeat.

“Now, now…no need to be so bitter. I’ll make it good for you,” Jim assured gently, making the sleuth roll his eyes in disbelief. Why did he have to be so uncooperative? Oh, no matter, the criminal mastermind decided.  He’d change his mind soon enough. Sherlock would enjoy this whether he wanted to or not.

With another sigh, Moriarty moved to quickly and efficiently undress ‘his Sherly’. The sleuth didn’t try to hinder him, but he certainly wasn’t helpful either, moving only on command. He didn’t even look at the consulting criminal, staring instead at the opposite, blank wall. Jim bit his ear – hard. “Hey now, don’t get distracted!” he ordered, sensing that Sherlock was close to retreating inside his own mind. “There’s nothing over there.”

The detective shifted his eyes obediently back to his nemesis’ angry face. How was he supposed to face this if Moriarty wanted him conscious for all of it? He hadn’t even contemplated such an option. _Stupid_ , Sherlock.

“We’ll have to start small but keep you involved, huh?” Jim pondered. “Lay back,” he instructed, before laying down at the detective’s side. “Now hug me,” he added, grinning.

Sherlock gingerly put his arms around the consulting criminal’s torso.

“Your head, on my shoulder. And squeeze, don’t be shy,” Jim directed further. When the sleuth obeyed, he sighed deeply in satisfaction and breathed, “God, how have I missed this!” going boneless into the hug.

However unwise it might be to contradict Moriarty, Sherlock couldn’t help but mumble against his skin, “To miss something you must have had it first.”

“Oh, I did,” Jim replied cheerfully, gently petting his captive’s curls, which made Sherlock tense up.

“I think I would have remembered it,” the detective groused.

“Oh, but you do, my dear. You just don’t realise it,” Moriarty assured, condescending.

“You’re making no sense,” the sleuth grumbled, annoyed. He had agreed to be the man’s toy, not to be cryptically teased.

“Oh fine, I thought about guarding my secret as a card for further games, but nobody’s to say we can’t play more even with you aware of the situation. Maybe it will finally make you relax enough to be inclined to play – in and out of bed. I’ll have you know this isn’t my first life,” Jim revealed, his hands dropping from the curls to gently caress scarred shoulders (Mycroft should have left the clean up to him).

Not that Sherlock relaxed – he seemed to tense up even further, if at all possible. At such an explanation though, the detective actually rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s not. And who were you in this supposed former life, a prey animal? A shark? Jack the Ripper?...Shiva?”

A beat of silence, then, “Redbeard,” the consulting criminal drawled dreamily.

“That’s a low blow. Even for you,” the sleuth reproached, old hurt smouldering in his eyes,

“It’s not a blow at all, love. It’s a fact,” the criminal mastermind countered dispassionately (though it was so good to know he was still missed).

“I know you’re insane, Jim, but honestly I didn’t think this much,” the detective remarked casually.

“Dismissing a hypothesis without searching for evidence isn’t like you at all, Sherly. You disappoint me greatly. Why, even Mycroft let me prove myself. At least ask me something only he would know!” Jim protested, the shadow of a whine in his voice.

“You told Mycroft too?” Sherlock queried, incredulous. He couldn’t imagine what his brother’s reaction to such a claim would be. Spiteful, in all probability.

“Now don’t be jealous. I had to tell him first. Otherwise, how would I have survived till now? Big Brother was more than inclined to dispose of any threats to your life – quite correctly, too. I asked him not to blow this surprise. I’m so pleased he didn’t,” Jim replied, smiling.

“Fine, let’s indulge you. If you’re indeed Redbeard, you’ll know what I mumbled against your fur the first night you arrived.”

“I’m so glad you picked that one,” Jim approved, grinning. “We were exactly like this – well, you were a bit more clothed, it was Christmas after all – and you said, «You’ll be my friend, won’t you, Redbeard? Forever and ever and ever? Promise me. Promise me you won’t ever like Mycroft better too.  Not like everyone else.» As if I could have. And then, I kissed you – like this,” the consulting criminal answered, nudging the face that Sherlock was trying to bury in his shoulder up in order to pepper it with tiny kisses, on his eyes, his nose, his ears, the way he’d once laved it with tiny licks. Finally, he deposited a close-mouthed kiss on his mouth, currently pulled in a line so thin as if to disappear entirely.

Sherlock was shocked. His feelings at the time could maybe be divined, but the exact wording…how could Moriarty know? Reincarnation was impossible, wasn’t it? But Mycroft was no fool, and if he had indeed allowed Moriarty to continue undisturbed with his plans (Mycroft wouldn’t betray him, would he?) he had to have had a reason. Could he accept this? What would it mean for the both of them? How could his beloved Redbeard turn into this ruthless consulting criminal? “Redbeard?” he croaked hesitantly.

“Exactly,” Jim said, beaming at him.

“I’m sorry,” the detective blurted out. “I was too young – I couldn’t stop them. Forgive me?”

“Hey, hey, baby, I know. I’m not angry at you,” the criminal mastermind reassured, depositing a sweet kiss on his brow.

“Don’t lie to me. You hate me. Of course you’ve always hated me. It’s the only explanation for your behaviour,” Sherlock replied, daring to let Moriarty go and roll away from him. He didn’t appreciate being treated as a fool.

“What?” Jim uttered, flabbergasted. “No, baby, no, I couldn’t possibly hate you. You’ll always be my sweet boy, I swear. Everything I did, it was always in good fun. A game. Everything was but a game, didn’t you know? After all, we wouldn’t want you to get bored,” the consulting criminal revealed, grinning at him and sitting up to run soothing hands on his arm.

“Bored?” Sherlock gasped, almost choking on the word, getting up to escape Moriarty’s unwelcome attentions. He was incensed. “You made my life a living hell to ensure I wasn’t _bored_?”  

“Now don’t be a drama queen, Sherly,” Jim chided.

“Drama queen?” the sleuth echoed, outraged. “I’ve lost everything thanks to you. I’ve been _tortured_. And now you want to rape me. I’m not being a goddamned drama queen!”

“Now now, rape’s a big word. I only want to give you pleasure. You don’t know what you’re missing, babe. You deserve this,” Moriarty remarked, with a placating gesture.

“I _deserve_ a minimum of basic respect as a human being, if you really don’t hate me,” the detective demanded. 

“I honestly don’t get why you are so angry. Fine, if you’re really so much against it – even if I assure you that there’s really nothing to be terrified of – I won’t make love to you. Just know it’s really a pity, Sherly,” Moriarty remarked, pouting.

The detective sighed once in deep relief, then rolled his eyes. “I am  angry because I _hate you_ for what you’ve done to us,” he explained sharply.

“What?” Jim yelped. “No! LIAR!” he yelled. “You don’t hate me. You might not be properly grateful, but you’ve loved all our games. Since Carl Powers, you’ve loved it. I know you, mister!” He wagged his finger in scolding.

“I might have been more taken by your mysteries than it would have been proper,” the sleuth admitted, lowering his gaze in shame. “At the start…up to the Janus Cars case, if you want an indication…I did indeed relish the challenge, for which I’m deeply ashamed of myself. But afterwards, it stopped being fun. It’s since then that I resented you.”

“No you don’t,” Jim insisted. “You don’t resent me. Most assuredly, you don’t hate me. I have not messed up so much. Didn’t you like the last two years, playing just the two of us, without any interlopers? I helped you against Maupertuis, you know?”

“I absolutely _loathed_ the last two years,” Sherlock spit out, crossing his arms and ignoring Moriarty’s claim.

“Really?” the consulting criminal queried, voice tremulous. “I got it all wrong? And I tried so hard to make our games the best ever experience.” He reached towards the detective, slightly bowed, half pleading and half submissive in a very uncharacteristic way.

“Really. How could you expect anything else?” the detective confirmed, flabbergasted at Jim’s interpretation of what happened between them.

Jim touched Sherlock’s arm, almost in supplication. “But you…liked me when I was Redbeard at least, yes? When we played pirates instead of Catch-me-if you-can?” His voice trembled again.

“God yes. Of course I loved Redbeard. I was crushed when he…you…died, It’s so odd to say things like that properly. And I can’t help but regret it deeply, Jim. If you’d just come to me – if you’d _talked_ to me, before becoming a criminal mastermind, ruining my life and all that…If you’d told me the truth then, and proved it, we might even have become friends instead of me hating you,” the sleuth said, looking thoughtful and putting a hand over Jim’s on his arm – if to pet or take it away, he too wasn’t entirely sure.

“You’d have no need of John Watson,” Jim pointed out, sighing in disappointment at a lost occasion.

“Or I could have had two friends. Some people have heaps. Two would have been nice,” Sherlock replied dreamily.

Why was his Sherly so attached to the unworthy doctor? Moriarty couldn’t contain a stab of deep jealousy. He huffed in annoyance. “If I could become a dog – a pup – again, would you keep me at your side?” the consulting criminal inquired, a manic glint alighting in his eyes. “Forgive me? Would you love me once again?”

“That’s a moot point, isn’t it? Now you’re Jim Moriarty, human being and consulting criminal. You can’t be anything else,” the detective answered, shaking his head.

“Oh, but I can. Up there someone loves me, Sherly. _Answer me._ Would you have me – love me again?” the criminal mastermind insisted vibrantly.

“If you respected the house’s rules…to be honest, to have my beloved Redbeard back – I’d love to,” the sleuth finally admitted. “I always refused to have another dog, because there was no replacing Redbeard in my heart. But if I really had the chance to meet him – you – again, as a pup, it might indeed clean the slate between us of everything you’ve done because you didn’t understand – because I didn’t explain (but to be fair, you didn’t ask either). There’d be no Moriarty haunting the world either, right?”

“Right,” Jim confirmed, nodding vigorously. “About rules…oh Sherly, you can’t really think that I’d piss on your carpet! I’m better bred than that,” he assured, huffing.

“It’s not just that. You don’t bite John, or piss on John’s things, or generally harass John, or I’ll be forced to bring you to my mummy’s house and leave you there. Maybe you’d like it better too – being there, like old times,” the sleuth teased with a little smile.

“What? No!” Jim yelped. “I want to be with you. Fine, I won’t act out in any way against your flatmate in my new life. But you can’t force me to like him,” he grumbled, pouting.

“Obviously. I’d be content if the both of you signed a treaty of non-aggression,” the detective remarked evenly.

“Oh Sherly, the things I do for you,” the criminal consultant sighed, shaking his head. “You better keep your end of the bargain, though – and be pleased with this.”

“I will,” Sherlock promised, offering his hand to shake to seal the deal, which Jim happily did.

“And now you better come back to bed and cover yourself up, if you don’t want to offer Seb a free show. I have a few instructions for him,” the criminal mastermind remarked, smirking. The sleuth quickly obeyed, and Moriarty pressed a button – Sebastian would come to him in moments.

“Send the doctor on his way. You can keep your baby girl,” Jim ordered, when the sniper arrived, a half-questioning and half-expectant expression on his face. At his side, Sherlock frowned deeply, but held his tongue. They could save Violet later. And he shouldn’t let the man know that the power balance had so deeply shifted. It would be imprudent to reveal how Jim was eager to please _him_ , now.

“He won’t want to leave alone,” Seb pointed out reasonably.

“Tell him that the choice is his: He can leave now and have everything returned in mostly good condition, just a little late; or, he can refuse to leave and condemn everyone to a slow death. His choice. John should know what I’m capable of by now,” the consulting criminal replied, annoyed.

“Yeah, that might work,” the sniper agreed, chuckling softly. Watson was certainly all too aware of that after witnessing what had happened to his wife.

“Before you get back – leave the doctor’s gun to me. You won’t be needing two,” Jim pointed out, holding out his hand.

“Gunplay?” Seb quipped, handing it over, with a leer at the detective whose face was a perfectly unreadable mask. Being  breached by his friend’s weapon…Jim always had such interesting ideas. “Good idea. Just remember that this one didn’t have the sight filed away, in case you don’t want to inflict too much damage,” he reminded, friendly.

The sniper expected to be reprimanded for speaking out of turn. Instead, Jim almost caressed the tips of his fingers when they brushed over the gun and he said softly, “You’re the best I’ve ever had. You know that, don’t you, Bast?”

Taken aback, Sebastian nodded, but he couldn’t help but reply bitterly, “Until now, you mean.” He certainly didn’t top Sherlock bloody Holmes.

“Well, of course,” Jim agreed, with a nonchalant wave of his hand. That he wouldn’t be violating Sherly was to be his little secret for a while still. “You can go,” the consulting criminal dismissed him. Seb instinctively saluted before leaving.

“Now Sherly, once it’s done you can leave through my apartment. It’d be odd if others noticed you going about by yourself,” Jim stated, explaining to the sleuth by which way he should pass. The detective nodded, grateful. He could sham his way through almost anything, but it was easier not having to do so.

With a last quick peck on closed lips, Jim promised, “See you soon, my boy,”…and shot himself in the head.

“Farewell, Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock said softly, gently closing the man’s dead, staring eyes. Time to go back to John, and save Violet Watson. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a single thing. Warnings: SUICIDE AGAIN, CHARACTER(S) DEATH, CONTEMPLATING INFANTICIDE (BUT NOT COMMITTING IT).

Sebastian wasn’t surprised that Jim didn’t ring to have dinner brought up. It was perfectly reasonable that he’d forget his stomach when he was sating a much older hunger. And he honestly didn’t expect to see him re-emerge from the playroom to sleep anywhere else – certainly not on his own, much less with him when he finally had Sherlock to cuddle against.

When a good part of the following morning passed without a peep from the consultant criminal, though, he decided to check in. He’d bring coffee, whipped cream and chocolate syrup, and mumble, “Just a suggestion,” if – fine, it was more of a when – Jim glared at him. His partner in crime would secretly appreciate the attention, though – he was always grumpy before his first coffee of the day. 

Nobody else would have dared to come in without express orders, of course, but Seb was Seb and the minion who’d substituted Ed nodded to him, opening the door for the sniper whose hands were full with the coffee tray. 

Sebastian entered with a wicked smile on his face…and a second later, everything he brought clattered noisily to the floor, shards of teacup and coffee spilling everywhere. Jim looked to be still asleep, but there was no coffee in the world that’d wake him up now. He’d been shot in the temple. And, the bloody detective was nowhere to be seen. 

Seb knew that the playroom was soundproofed entirely (simply a necessity with the kind of things that sometimes went on in there), even so, after recovering from his initial shock, his next act was to open the door and shoot the guard. _Sherlock had fled! Sherlock was gone and no one had prevented him._ Seb would deal with Ed later. Someone definitely hadn’t been doing their job and, when in doubt, he went with his gut instinct, shoot both.  

He should have stood guard over Jim himself. But the temptation to interrupt in a fit of jealousy was risky and he hadn’t felt strong enough to take the chance. He’d risked his own skin over that of Jim’s and now he’d lost his only love. Seb chided himself that he should never have given Jim the gun, seeing that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t tied up. He’d thought the detective would comply with anything for the doctor, but – what sort of terrible oversight had he made. He should have…oh fuck it all, he could spend hours piling up should have and shouldn’t have, but the conclusion was the same: hindsight was a bitch. And it didn’t change anything. 

Well, what should he do now, kill the sleuth? That went without saying. Murdering Jim ended all games. All bets were off. Hunting season was open. 

Sherlock might be the prime target during hunting season for Seb but he wouldn’t mind killing the blogger, too – first, preferably.  He would kill John slowly and as creatively as Seb could get (which would never be as good as Jim’s ideas, but he sure as hell would try). He would make sure that Holmes saw it all – or at the very least got the video of it. 

Let the detective feel the utter loss and pain that Sebastian was feeling now. Jim had always been so jealous of how enamoured ‘Sherly’ was with his pet, but now that devotion would serve the sniper’s plan splendidly. It would ensure that he could _hurt_ the sleuth. 

And then, after John was dead? He might possibly rape the detective and show him how it was done when the other party wasn’t bloody besotted with you. Let him try to defend his virtue again. Sebastian wouldn’t be so easy to take down. 

The sniper went back to his room to prepare – mostly, to pick up some of his favourite weapons. When he wasn’t sleeping with Jim, Seb had picked for himself quarters adjoining the armoury. What could he say, he loved the smell that inevitably filtered into his rooms. The aroma of cold steel, gunpowder, and leather was always so soothing. 

But now, suddenly, just before he entered his quarters, a screaming baby welcomed him. Perhaps if she’d been lamenting Jim’s loss he’d feel inclined to let her go on wailing. Seb felt rather like screaming himself hoarse too. But she was a stupid baby who didn’t get a thing and just wanted something, and if she didn’t start being quiet instead of annoying the predator in the room she wouldn’t stay alive long. A good hard shake and she’d be quiet forever. Newborns were such fragile things. 

The only thing that was saving her life was that she’d been Jim’s pet project – he’d wondered so many times if his love postponed dealing with ‘Mary’ for so long to ensure the baby’s survival once it was removed from her – and disappointing Jim, even posthumously, was not something Seb could ever do. He ended up yelling for a random minion, and when the man scurried to report, eager to placate the anger in his voice, the sniper ordered him to deal with the baby. If the man was surprised, he showed enough common sense not to object and gingerly confronted the screaming newborn. 

Seb slipped into the armoury and in its comforting safety, faced with so many weapons that were thoughtful gifts of his lover, all the anger that had supported him and been his rock until then suddenly waned. He started crying like a child. Uncontrollable, thank God mostly silent tears, all the while holding for dear life _their_ favourite rifle, which Jim got him “for our first anniversary, Sebby-love,” – that is, the anniversary of Seb’s dishonourable discharge to officially become Jim’s head sniper. 

At least Jim’s last words to him had been kind – until he’d ruined it all by being bitter (couldn’t he just be properly grateful for once?). _Suspiciously_ kind and affectionate, to be honest. Did Jim _know_ he could have died? If so, why hadn’t he bid Seb to stay? Didn’t he trust him with his own protection anymore? 

He suddenly realised something. There had to be a video of everything somewhere. There was no way that Jim didn’t want something to remember such a momentous event by. If he could get his hands on the video at least he could see what had happened. 

But, did he _want_ to see it? To see Jim’s last moments? More than anything else, he realised. He angrily wiped the tears away and set out to hunt for the video, only noticing he’d never let go of the rifle when he ended up in their media central. He found the recording at last – he wasn’t an expert about technology, and went slowly; afraid he might delete it by mistake. Good thing that the place was empty and nobody thought about questioning him on the way. Thankfully, Seb having the run of the place when Moriarty wasn’t around was the natural order of things. 

Now that he’d finally located the video and managed to rewind it…now he was ready to watch. He steeled himself for it. He pushed his emotions down and dried his tears so he could watch the video with clear vision. He didn’t want to miss any details. 

But Seb was in for a surprise. As he watched the video his wonderment grew frame by frame. He re-watched bits of the video too. Did he have the correct video? He double checked. Yes, it was the correct date and time. He could hardly believe his eyes. Wow! To say the least it was…unexpected. I mean he’d always known that Jim was a tiny bit insane, but really? Believing he was…what? Sherly’s childhood pet of some sort? To hear Jim explain that he was Redbeard, Sherly’s childhood pet dog -- that went beyond even Jim’s usual brand of madness. 

Seb hadn’t expected this revelation. No struggle. No gun wrestled from Jim’s hand. Just frantic love. Love desperate to please and gain the sleuth’s approval. This was infinitely worse, in a way. Seb felt sick to his stomach. He’d always known that Jim cared for his Sherly, but…not that much. He’d never imagined Jim had such utter devotion for Sherlock. Not this, _to death_ , kind of love.

The thing that shocked Sebastian the most was that it hadn’t even been Sherlock planting the idea of suicide in Jim’s fevered brain. The sleuth had just agreed with whatever Moriarty came up with. Could he be deemed pushing Jim to his death simply because he hadn’t liked their latest games? I mean, what with him being tortured and what not. You’d think that Jim would have gotten that.  Seb certainly had known, and hadn’t mentioned because he thought the detective was nothing more than Jim’s favourite toy, whose feelings didn’t count (well, more accurately he’d hoped so). 

And, then, another shocker was that Sherlock had been unexpectedly gentle with his dead nemesis. That gained him points as far as the sniper was concerned. He started revising his plans. Sherly probably didn’t deserve a brutal rape. Seb started to second-guess himself. Had he pushed Jim to his death? Perhaps he should have insisted that Jim see a shrink for his problems. Perhaps his failure in not making Jim get psychiatric help earlier was the ultimate cause of the consulting criminal’s demise? (Just what he needed. More guilty should haves.) 

Then Seb wondered if he would he even feel better by killing the sleuth? He could, easily, but oh, how angry would Jim be at him for that when they met once again? “You killed him. I had _plans_ for him,” Jim would hiss. Sebastian could almost hear his lover’s disappointment in his head.

“You’re dead. Not a bloody dog!” he would yell back, frustrated. 

“I was _working_ on it!” Jim would chide, throwing his arms in the air. It seemed he was always ‘working’ on something or another, and Seb guessed simply being dead wasn’t stopping Jim.

Killing John Watson, though, now that was another matter. Right now getting rid of the doctor sounded perfect. The death of John would give Sherlock Holmes the same kind of hell he’d agreed to throw Sebastian into. Well, it sounded good until, once again, he heard Jim’s voice in his head. “I thought we weren’t killing Sherly,” he whined. (How could Seb be having entire conversations with him if the man was dead?)

“Do you really think he’d die of a fucking broken heart?” the sniper replied in his mind, dubious. To hell with his sanity, he decided. Sanity was overrated anyway. 

“Same hell, you recognised as much yourself, Bast-kitten,” Jim would tut. “And you _are_ dying from it, ain’t you?” he added with a wide smirk. Seb could imagine him only too well. 

“I thought you made me keep the baby because you wanted me to continue the project,” he objected hesitantly. He couldn’t die if he had a child to rear after all.  

“But I know that you want to delegate her to someone else. You’ve already assigned your minion to take care of her at the moment. You don’t want the responsibility of raising the baby, Sebby. Admit it. You don’t want her.  Why not give the baby to someone else?  Turn it into one of those nature versus nurture experiments. Will she become a ruthless killer if she’s raised by ordinary blokes, or not?” Jim laid things out so reasonably, and, correctly. He knew his Seb. Then the consulting criminal still in Seb’s head remarked airily. “We are to be together forever, after all. You promised.” 

He had, hadn’t he? Two years ago, when Jim had pretended to die. Well, maybe not exactly promised, but he’d _told_ Jim, and he honestly didn’t feel like going back on his word. A bullet for him too, nice and clean, and he could follow Jim to whatever hell his lover dwelt in now. Being together in hell would be closer to heaven that he’d have any right to. So it was decided, uh? He would only kill himself. He would keep Jim content.

He had only one thing to take care of before he could – blessedly – follow Jim. The baby. With the both of them dead, she’d surely be killed, or sold to the black market, or something.  She didn’t deserve it, if only because she’d been Jim’s pet project. 

He couldn’t very well call social workers to their lair, they were a noisy bunch that always asked too many questions and wanted to fill endless forms and so on. Sebastian didn’t have the patience for any of that right now. Not to mention they snooped, and whether it was the armoury or Jim’s dead body, Seb didn’t want them anywhere close. 

He could abandon the kid somewhere, he supposed, and hope someone would find her. But there was always the chance she wouldn’t be found, at least not in time. He was repeating himself here, but newborns were _so_ fragile.

Then he thought – hey, he knew someone who looked like he wanted her after all. Someone who was undoubtedly at 221B now, checking over his surprisingly intact (boy?)friend. Someone who might need to retire from active detective business – or sidekick business – if he had a child to take care of. This would make the sleuth, if not mourn him to death, at least achingly miss him. The man had agreed with Jim’s death. He deserved a good deal of emotional pain.

With a smirk, Sebastian took the now sleeping baby, brought her to 221B Baker Street’s doorstep, rang the bell and disappeared before anyone could open the door. Probably the landlady, to be honest, would be the first to answer the bell and find the baby. He presumed the boys would surely be busy right now – between everything that happened and Mary’s removal, it wouldn’t surprise Seb if they’d finally hooked up. If Jim were alive, he’d have had a hissy fit. But with the addition of a baby, and the screaming and the dirty nappies and the midnight feedings and the endless details that come with raising a baby, such couple-time would be in short supply. Seb couldn’t suppress the evil grin as he disappeared around the corner.

Anyway, his last errand was completed.  Now he was free to follow his heart. He would follow Jim’s lead, as he’d always done. “I’m coming, love,” he whispered to himself.

He went quickly back to the base. If someone else had noticed Jim’s body, they hadn’t moved him. Everyone was probably panicking over what would happen now that Jim was dead – again. After all, the last time Jim and the equally dead detective had ‘died’ most of the criminal network had been wiped out by Sherlock (well – with some help from Jim too, but nobody else knew that). But none of this was Seb’s business anymore.

He simply got on the bed and cuddled his cold, dead, rigid lover. Seb kissed his forehead, eyes and lips briefly, and with his last breath croaked, “See you soon, you perfect madman.” He shot himself, mirroring the suicide of his lover down to the exact same side of the temple.

“Sooo…you loved him very much. Jim Moriarty, I mean,” a gentle but somehow amused sounding voice said. Whatever Seb had expected from hell or judgement, this wasn’t it.

“Yeah. Whatever hell you’ve thrown him in will be perfect for me,” he replied nonetheless, gruffly. No sense lying.

“What makes you think he’s in hell?” the voice quipped, now definitely with a short bark of a laugh.

“He’s not exactly been a model of virtues. Me neither,” Sebastian admitted, trying to figure out if he could shrug as a mere soul.

“Yes, but luckily for him I’ve always had a soft spot for him, since the first time around,” the mysterious voice revealed. And what did ‘the first time around’ even mean? Was Jim right in claiming having had other lives?

“That’s good to know. So he’s in heaven then?” Seb queried, a bit hesitant at such an outlandish situation. That would cause a serious problem for him – he couldn’t hope to be favoured too, and hence would be separated from Jim eternally. Maybe that was supposed to be his hell. As long as he knew that Jim was happy, though, nothing else mattered.

“Neither. He’s actually back on Earth. Third time is the charm, as they say. I do so hope he’ll be content this time around,” the ethereal voice replied, with a little sigh.

“I don’t suppose that you’d send me back too?” Sebastian asked, mildly hopeful but more than a bit uncertain. He’d never been anyone’s favourite after all. He didn’t deserve any favours.  

“There’s a little catch,” the voice pointed out. Of course. When wasn’t there one? “He went back as a dog,” the mysterious being added, matter-of-factly. 

“Works for me,” the former sniper remarked immediately, not even a moment of doubt at the thought of losing his humanity. So Jim had really been completely honest instead of entirely barmy, uh? Good for him. 

“Mmmm…You’re certainly loyal enough to be a good pup,” the voice acknowledged finally, after a stretch of tense silence. 

“Then can I go back to being Jim’s pack mate?” Sebastian inquired eagerly.

“You can go back as a dog, but remember your past life. As for being his pack mate…I suppose you’ll have to earn it again,” the disembodied being pointed out. 

“Of course. Yeah. I can do that,” Seb agreed enthusiastically. 

“Any particular wishes?” the whatever-it-was asked. 

“I hope I won’t get saddled with a ridiculous or demeaning name. Some people call their pets the worst things. But it’s not really a priority,” Sebastian admitted. He didn’t want to be ashamed of himself in front of Jim. 

“I can ensure that. No problem,” the voice assured kindly.

Poof! The next conscious awareness Seb had…

… The voice had botched things up horribly. He was hot. Stiflingly hot. What happened to London that it should be this warm? Nuclear bomb? Then he heard human voices, in a foreign tongue. He recognised the language. He’d left behind Afghanistan to be with Jim. What the _bloody_ _fuck_ was he doing back in Afghanistan? And how was he supposed to get back to London and Baker Street? Fuck. Triple bloody buggering fuck.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. A.N. Thank you so very much to my dear Ennui Enigma for her work betaing this fic and saving me from glaring errors and various nonsense. This time, no warnings. Enjoy the happy…ish end.

John couldn’t believe it when Sherlock returned, intact, from his ordeal. He almost might have examined him thrice to be absolutely sure that the detective wasn’t lying to him and pretending to be unhurt. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened, after all. With so much at stake, the doctor refused to risk being duped. The sleuth had been hurt too often in the past without allowing him to help.

As for Sherlock, he explained mostly everything except why his view of hereafter had suddenly changed. He was still trying to come to terms with that himself. And, after Moriarty had ruined his friend’s life too, he wasn’t sure that his blogger might deem him ultimately responsible for not having looked after Redbeard properly, or trained him better, or something. The thought of losing his friendship was unthinkable, so the detective kept his little secret and enjoyed cuddling on the sofa next to his best friend. Neither had the force of will to give up the intimacy after such traumatic events getting to their respective beds. And, that was how, ultimately, they fell asleep.

The following day, John’s mind kept turning back to the consulting criminal’s words. Was Violet really the sniper’s child? If so, he supposed he had no legal rights to her, despite having been married to her mother and loving her with all his soul. Perhaps he could storm in and take the baby by force? Moran certainly wouldn’t stand for it, and putting her at the centre of a potentially gun-fought custody battle would endanger her. Possibly get her hurt. That couldn’t be allowed. But, how could he renounce and abandon her, on the other hand?

As for Sherlock, he thought that John would be the one to take the lead in the saving of Violet. For once, being the leader instead of the loyal follower. She was his child. The detective was ready to defer to John’s higher experience about anything concerning her future. Instead, he observed his best friend clearly agonizing over his choices. What was there to doubt? It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? They only had to get her out from Moran’s murderous hands.

John was in an agonising quandary, that is, until they heard a child’s cry. At this, John’s heart broke – was he starting to have auditory hallucinations because of his aching for Violet? – and then up came Mrs. Hudson, with a baby (no, with Violet – really Violet!) in her arms, saying someone had left her down and maybe they could help finding the parents?

“Done, Mrs. H. Here’s her dad, ” Sherlock declared, with a grin, indicating his flatmate. The old woman cooed happily, and John embraced his child, choked with emotion.

“Moriarty did say that everything of yours would eventually be returned,” the sleuth pointed out. Though he hadn’t thought the baby would be included in the list, the father being Moran. But evidently the man didn’t want to bother with a needy baby. Perfect. “Is she ok?” he wondered apprehensively.

“I think she’s just hungry. Thank God I brought a bottle over thinking you’d get to watch your goddaughter sometimes. You do have milk, yeah?” John replied, after looking her over her like a protective mother hawk.

“Surprisingly I do,” the detective quipped with a smile. “Uummm…John, Moriarty’s associates might still try something. I think it would be safer if you and Violet came to live here.

Sherlock was quiet a moment, observing the reunited pair. Then he added, “Umm…, how would Violet like a pup?”

“She’s just been born, I don’t think she has much of an opinion on the matter of a puppy yet,” the doctor replied, warming the milk for her bottle and rocking the child at the same time. “Thanks for the offer though. For safety, I will definitely come back to it.” In truth, he was all too grateful to have an excuse to leave his marital home and the undoubtedly, nightmare-inducing Mary memories he’d be surrounded with,  there.

“I think we should get a dog…for her, of course,” Sherlock said with a sly smile. “Children are less likely to have allergies if the family has a pet early on in life.”

“Do you really think it’s wise making that kind of a commitment with your lifestyle? I’ll be busy taking care of Violet; I won’t be able to look after your dog too, you know,” the blogger pointed out practically.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of a dog. I had one as a child…and, I more or less, promised Moriarty I would adopt one,” the sleuth confessed, shrugging.

“What?” John yelped. “Then absolutely not. There’s the perfect pup you’ll surely fall in love with out there…trained to rip out your throat in your sleep, no doubt.”

“Then we shall wait for the birth of a pup that wasn’t even conceived when Jim was alive. That’s probably for the best anyway. He would never have had opportunity to be trained by Moriarty that way, right? It’s important to me, John. I can’t simply abandon him again,” Sherlock replied vibrantly.

“You’re making no sense, do you realize that? How can you abandon _again_ someone who isn’t even born yet?” the doctor quipped, worried for his friend’s mental state.

“Don’t make me explain, John. It’s complicated. You wouldn’t believe me. I barely believe it myself – but I did have evidence,” the detective pleaded. It had been a big shift in his view of things, death not being the end of it all. Of course, that meant he could get Redbeard back. That he could maybe see grandma again – she was such a sweet woman. But Sherlock had always seen himself as a frequent failure, so maybe now he would be punished for all his mistakes. When he added every screw-up in his life, the tally was decidedly high. Fine, stop thinking about that, he told himself.  For now, concentrate on helping John with Violet. Then, soon, Redbeard. He would try to screw up a bit less. One thing at a time.

As always, when something really meant a lot to the detective, John ended up caving. It took less than three minutes for John to agree to Sherlock’s pup plan. When the dog arrived – once Redbeard, then Jim – Sherlock’s joy was contagious. Anyone who knew him smiled reflexively when they saw his expression of bliss.

As for the pup itself, he was ecstatic. Finally he was once again at his Sherly’s side. He had a new name, which was perfect, because Redbeard the Second would simply not fit for his third life. And Sherly’s interests had changed in the meantime. A pirate name would be ridiculous. The pup’s new name was Copper. He liked the chemistry aspect of it – although he suspected that the dual meaning of copper might be a permanent means of reminding him which side of the law he was supposed to be committed to in his third incarnation. The blogger joked that Sherlock just wanted to have at least one policeman forever at his beck and call.

Copper’s tail wagged like mad every time his master so much as glanced in his general direction. He tried so hard to be perfect for his beloved Sherly. He was a rambunctious pup by nature– exploring and running around during his daily strolls at Regent’s Park. But if the sleuth was absorbed in one of his experiments, Copper lay quietly at his side for hours, head slightly inclined and intently observing. Close enough for Sherlock to absently pet him now and again, but never asking for attention he knew he wouldn’t get.

Just being allowed close to his adored master was all Copper needed to be happy. He had waited so long for this. The affection the detective poured on him was absolute heaven. He was once again Sherlock’s confidante, his friend, his protector. Though, of course, he wasn’t the only one anymore. Although he had to accept the fact that didn’t mean that he had to like it.

He was still bitterly jealous of one, John Hamish Watson. But he’d promised Sherly he’d behave towards his flatmate, so he never even once attempted to bite him, or destroy his things in a fit of boredom (even if Sherlock didn’t show him the same courtesy).

It helped that John didn’t hate him or try to punish him for past misdeeds. And while the dog knew the man was forgiving to a fault (towards Sherly at least) he suspected that such lack of hatred meant that his master had kept the secret of his past identity. The detective was protecting him from John’s possible retaliation. It warmed his canine heart to be so cared for.

Despite insisting that he was _Sherlock’s_ dog, in truth, John had a soft spot for him. He’d always wanted, but never got to have, a dog as a child – that was easy to deduce even for Copper. Often the doctor would give him little treats or pet him gently. And yes, it was nice, but the old-soul pup wouldn’t let himself be bought by a belly rub or chicken. His heart was all for his beloved Sherly. No amount of bribes would make him see the blogger as more than a tolerated evil.

At least it was Copper who was the one sharing Sherlock’s bed, just like he’d used to in his first life. Though he figured it was a temporary victory. Sooner or later Sherly would stop telling his dog how desperately he loved John (and let me tell you, that was bloody annoying) and finally confess as much to the man himself. Copper had no doubt that the doctor would jump to the occasion with glee (how couldn’t his master see that everyone loved him?). But as long as the sleuth was a coward, Copper got to cuddle and comfort him every night, much to canine heart’s delight. He’d really missed this so much. And judging by the way Sherly hugged him; he might have missed this too.

If only Redbeard, now Copper, had never tried to play human. For his boy’s sake, though it might have been – could they have had this all the time? He’d been so silly, trying to make things the best he could as a human and messing up instead. Oh, no matter. They were together now. That was what counted now, anyway.

For a while, he was excluded from cases, and it hurt. Sherly was having such fun without him (and more importantly, _with John_ ). But then came the time the most speedy way to locate a missing murderer of three was to follow the scent track he had surely left – the man was known to have very violent motion sickness so he’d probably flee on his bike. And so, instead of asking for a police dog, Sherlock brought in Copper, unnoticed.

The fact that he saved his master from a sneak attack from the same murderer gained him extra praise (nobody would injure his sleuth if Copper had any say in it!). And, with such initial victory, it led to him being more often involved in future cases. Even the doctor said that it was a good idea. So now it was the _three of them_ against the underworld of England, and occasionally against other nations too. Both his pets had made Sherlock famous, after all.

And if Anderson objected to his presence at crime scenes, nobody cared. Especially after that time the murderer had hid quite close to said crime scene and Copper had smelled him out and stopped him from attacking Donovan, who was examining the area. He still didn’t like her much, but if he let her get killed they might have been deemed useless and that was a big no-no.

All in all, life was good now. Very good. John tended to tense up at first anytime he’d sniff too close to Violet, but the dog had soon shown that he had no intention of harm. He was just curious. Why hadn’t Sebby kept her? On second thought, his tiger had never been a very fatherly type. They wanted the child. Seb didn’t. Everyone was happy. Copper was honestly fond of the baby. She’d been his pet project, to begin with. If she sometimes tugged on his fur more harshly than he’d like – well, both her parents had always liked to play rough. Copper allowed it – and there was always someone keeping an eye out so he wasn’t tormented for long.

The Irish Setter, if interrogated (maybe by his much courteous angel) would assure his inquirer that he wanted for nothing now…and yet. He was happy, of course he was happy, he had Sherly by his side. It was all he’d ever wanted. But it was both his gift and his curse to remember all his past lives. Everything that had happened. Everyone he’d met.

And there was Violet, who yes, mostly looked like his mother (and however little he liked the woman in the end, he couldn’t fault Vi for that)…but sometimes, still, she reminded him of her blood father.

And while he said to himself that he had absolutely no right to long for his Seb, as he’d chosen himself to leave behind that life and all its screw-ups, he still couldn’t repress the occasional sharp stab to his heart, missing his favourite sniper, slash lover, slash best friend. Now that he’s lost him, he could admit, if only to himself, that Seb really was all this, and more, to him. He hadn’t worshipped Sebastian like he did his Sherly, but God, he’d liked him.

It was true. The old proverb that says, ‘you never miss the water till the well runs dry’ or ‘you don’t know what you had until after you’ve lost it’. He wondered, sometimes, where Sebastian was at present – what he was doing? Had he found another employer? He must have, surely. But was he as fun as Jim? The former consulting criminal highly doubted it. Was Seb missing him too, maybe? Or had he been disappointed that Jim had left with no explanation, and perhaps now hated his guts?

When out on a case, Copper started sniffing around, hoping to find his former lover’s distinctive smell – ‘Bast should be keeping busy after all – but he never found him. Which was _good_ – Seb wouldn’t go to jail due to Sherly anytime soon – but at the same time, a disappointment. What was the bloody man doing? He hadn’t reenlisted had he? That’d be idiotic.

Then, one day, John heard from Bill (the same Bill who saved his life in Afghanistan). The man had gotten in the path of a bullet, too, and been sent home. His service dog had pushed him aside enough that the bullet hit wasn’t fatal. “I didn’t know that Bill had a dog,” the doctor remarked.

“A gift from some civilian he’s saved, probably,” Sherlock said, shrugging.

Bill’s dog might be a hero, but he couldn’t steal his pack’s attention, Copper decided immediately. Otherwise he would have to take some sort of measure against him.

They met Bill at Regent’s Park. Coffee with the boys, his dog trailing after him. It was a lean, strong, blondish furry thing, wearing a muzzle. As if Copper couldn’t handle dangerous. He barely stopped himself from scoffing at the mangy beast. “That’s Bast, my saviour,” Bill said, grinning.

Both Sherlock and John moved to pet him briefly. “Bast?” the doctor queried.

“He’s always grumbling and growling, like my uncle Sebastian. It seemed apt,” Bill explained, making everyone laugh.

And then this strange, grouchy looking dog barked briefly, almost hesitantly, “Jim?”

Wait a moment, _Jim_? And Bast – it was too odd, surely a coincidence (but did coincidence even exist?). Copper had to ask, even if he made a fool of himself. “Moran?” he queried, moving to sniff him.

“Yeah,” Bast choked out – and showed him his belly in submission. Which amazed his owner – who was barely treated to the same deference. The belly roll at least got him out of that damnable muzzle though, as he clearly meant no threat to the people present.

They played and ran around and lavished each other enthusiastically, until Jim asked, amused, “So, Afghanistan again?”

“Tiger-type Kuchi dog. Do you have any idea how much trouble your nickname put me in?” Bast grumbled, still wagging his tail despite the annoyance. He simply couldn’t stop now that he’d found Jim back.

“I know, I know, ironic angel. At least you didn’t take thirty-odd years to find your way back. You’re lucky. I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Copper confessed.

“As if I could stay away from you,” Bast chided.

“You could have saved your master entirely from being shot, not just from a fatal wound, couldn’t you?” the former consulting criminal queried, smirking.

“Yeah well, I wouldn’t get home that way, would I?” the Afghan breed replied, with the canine equivalent of a shrug.

Copper barked a laugh, and invited him to play tag, which Bast was only too glad to do. “I don’t like that you have to follow your owner,” the red dog said when Bill whistled to his playmate to come back.

“Kuchi dog are notoriously independent. Tell me at which hour I should report and see if heaven or hell can hold me from coming,” Bast declared vibrantly.

“Then see you at midnight, Tiger. I’ll sneak out, too. Unless we have a case,” Copper half-invited half-ordered.

“Your wish is my command,” the blond dog agreed. Then he trotted back to his master and accepted again that horrid muzzle. Copper hated it – and he was sure Bast did, too, even if he didn’t complain. It was, above all, a show of mistrust and Bill should really know better. Bast had never been anything but loyal.

Copper wondered briefly if he hadn’t just reincarnated this time. Maybe this really was heaven. Having Sherly, having Bast… His two loves in one place at the same time. It certainly seemed like heaven.


End file.
